UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 
OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE 


VOLUME  IV 


THE  (WOT) 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


105-7 


v  ^  PREFACE 

£2    OF  the  verses  republished  in  this  volume  and  the  next, 
some  are  censorious,  and  in  these  the  names  of  real  per 
sons  are  used  without  their  consent;  so  it  seems  fit  that 
"*!)     a  few  words  be  said  of  the  matter  in  sober  prose.    Of  my 
S°     motive  in  writing  and  now  republishing  these  personal 
•o    satires  I  do  not  care  to  make  either  defense  or  explana- 
O     tion,  except  with  reference  to  those,  who,  since  my  first 

^"O 

censure  of  them,  have  passed  away.    To  one  having  only 

a  reader's  interest  in  the  matter  it  may  seem  that  the 

co       verses  relating  to  those  might  properly  have  been  omitted 

N    from  this  collection.     But  if  these  pieces,  or,  indeed,  any 

*>      considerable  part,  of  my  work  in  literature,  have  the  in- 

^      trinsic  interest,  which,  by  this  attempt  to  preserve  some 

V       of  it   I   have   assumed,    their  permanent   suppression   is 

impossible;  it  is  only  a  question  of  when  and  by  whom 

they  will  be  republished.     Some  one  will  surely  search 

them  out  and  put  them  into  circulation. 

I  conceive  it  to  be  the  right  of  an  author  to  have  his 
fugitive  work  in  newspapers  and  periodicals  put  into  a 
more  permanent  form  during  his  lifetime  if  he  can;  and 
this  is  especially  true  of  one  whose  work,  necessarily  en 
gendering  animosities,  is  peculiarly  exposed  t.o  challenge 
as  unjust.  That  is  a  charge  that  can  best  be  examined 
before  time  has  effaced  the  evidence.  For  the  death  of  a 
man  whose  unworth  I  have  affirmed,  I  am  in  no  way 
accountable,  and  however  sincerely  I  may  regret  his  pass- 


16464.0 


io  PREFACE 

ing,  I  can  hardly  be  expected  to  consent  that  it  shall  affect 
my  literary  fortunes.  If  the  satirist  who  does  not  accept 
the  remarkable  doctrine  that  while  condemning  a  sin  he 
should  spare  the  sinner  were  bound  to  let  the  life  of  his 
work  be  coterminous  with  that  of  his  subject  his  lot  in 
letters  were  one  of  peculiar  hardship. 

Persuaded  of  the  validity  of  all  this,  I  have  not  hesi 
tated  to  reprint  even  certain  "  epitaphs,"  which,  once  of 
the  living,  are  now  of  the  dead,  as  all  the  others  must 
eventually  be.  The  objection  inheres  in  all  forms  of 
applied  satire — my  understanding  of  whose  laws,  liberties 
and  limitations,  is  at  least  derived  from  reverent  study  of 
the  masters.  That  in  respect  of  matters  herein  mentioned 
I  have  followed  their  practice  can  be  shown  by  abundant 
instance  and  example. 

In  arranging  these  verses  for  publication  I  have  thought 
it  needless  to  classify  them  as  "  serious,"  "  comic,"  "  senti 
mental,"  "  satirical,"  and  so  forth.  I  do  the  reader  the 
honor  to  think  that  he  will  readily  discern  the  character 
of  what  he  is  reading,  and  I  entertain  the  hope  that  his 
mood  will  accommodate  itself  without  disappointment  to 
that  of  his  author. 

AMBROSE     BIERCE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE  9 

SHAPES  OF  CLAY. 

THE  PASSING  SHOW 19 

ELIXIR  VIT.E   22 

CONVALESCENT   24 

AT   THE    CLOSE   OF   THE 

CANVASS  26 

GEOTHEOS    28 

POLITICS  29 

THE    VALLEY    OF    DRY 

BONES    30 

POLYPHEMUS  31 

IN  DEFENSE  32 

INVOCATION  34 

RELIGION    39 

Two  SOCIALISTS  40 

A  MORNING  FANCY 42 

VISIONS  OF  SIN 44 

GENIUS    46 

THE  TOWN  OF  DM 47 

AN  ANARCHIST  53 

AN     OFFER     OF     MAR 
RIAGE  54 

ARfcirt    VlRUMQUE     57 

ON  A  PROPOSED  CREMA 
TORY   57 


PAGE 
A  DEMAND 59 

THE    WE ATHER- WIGHT.  .  61 

T.  A.   H 67 

MY  MONUMENT   68 

MAD   68 

FOR    COERCION    OF    CO 
LOMBIA  70 

A  TEAGOING  ADMIRAL...  72 

THE  WOOER  74 

SILHOUETTES    OF    ORIEN 
TALS    76 

LAND   OF  THE   PILGRIM'S 

PRIDE 78 

A  SINGLE  TERMER 80 

A  PLAGUE  OF  ASSES 8z 

IN  CUBA  82 

FOR  A  CERTAIN  CRITIC..  85 

ARTHUR  McEwEN 87 

CHARLES  AND  PETER 87 

CONTEMPLATION  89 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE 90 

A  PROPHET  OF  PEACE.  ...  92 
AN    UNREFORMABLE    RE 
FORMER  93 

THE  WORD- WAY  IN  PAN 
AMA    95 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  JACK  OF  CLUBS 98 

A  NAVAL  METHOD 99 

ANOTHER  ASPIRANT   ....  102 

A   LEARNER    103 

To  BRIDGET 104 

AFTER  TENNYSON  105 

To  MY  BIRD 106 

BUSINESS 108 

A  POSSIBILITY 109 

To  A  CENSOR no 

"  THE     WHOLE     WORLD 

KIN"  113 

A  FUTURE  CONVERSATION.:  13 
THE     HESITATING     VET 
ERAN  115 

A  YEAR'S  "  CASUALTIES  ".n  8 

TO-DAY    118 

AN  ALIBI  120 

A  MEETING 127 

J.  F.  B 129 

THE  DYING  STATESMAN.  129 
THE  DEATH  OF  GRANT.. 131 
THE  FOUNTAIN  REFILLED.! 3 2 

LAUS  Lucis  138 

NANINE    139 

TECHNOLOGY  140 

A  REPLY  TO  A  LETTER.  142 

To  OSCAR  WILDE 144 

BORN  LEADERS  OF  MEN  . .  145 

THE  CRIME  OF  1903 146 

FOR  EXPULSION  148 


PAGE 

JUDEX  JOCOSUS  ISO 

"GRAFT"    151 

THE  TALE  OF  A  CRIME.  151 
To       THE       BARTHOLDI 

STATUE  153 

AN    UN  MERRY     CHRIST 
MAS  , 155 

FROM  VIRGINIA  TO  PARIS..:  57 
A     "  MUTE     INGLORIOUS 

MILTON"    158 

THE  FREE  TRADER'S  LA 
MENT    159 

SUBTERRANEAN    PHANTA 
SIES    160 

IN  MEMORIAM   163 

THE  STATESMAN   165 

BROTHERS  168 

THE  CYNIC'S  BEQUEST..  .169 

CORRECTED  NEWS 177 

MR.     FINK'S     DEBATING 

DONKEY  178 

To  MY  LAUNDRESS 183 

FAME 184 

OMNES  VANITAS   186 

CONSOLATION  186 

FATE   187 

PHILOSOPHER  BIMM  187 

REMINDED    189 

SALVINI  IN  AMERICA.  ...190 

ANOTHER  WAY  193 

ART  193 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

To     ONE     ACROSS     THE 

WAY  194 

To  A  DEBTOR  ABROAD...  195 

GENESIS   195 

LIBERTY   196 

THE    PASSING   OF   SHEP 
HERD 197 

To  MAUDE  200 

THE  BIRTH  OF  VIRTUE.. 201 

THE  SCURRIL  PRESS 201 

STANLEY    204 

ONE  OF  THE  UNFAIR  SEX. 205 
THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  ON 

A  COIN  206 

AD  ABSURDUM   206 

SAITH  THE  CZAR 208 

THE  ROYAL  JESTER 209 

A  CAREER  IN  LETTERS..  .213 
THE  FOLLOWING  PAIR... 214 

POLITICAL  ECONOMY  215 

THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN. .21 6 
INDUSTRIAL  DISCONTENT-ZIS 
TEMPORA  MUTANTUR  ...219 

A  FALSE  ALARM  220 

CONTENTMENT   221 

CONSTANCY  223 

THE  NEW  ENOCH  ARDEN.224 

DISAVOWAL    226 

AN  AVERAGE    227 

INCURABLE  228 

~>\  THE  PUN  228 


PAGE 

To  NANINE 230 

VICE  VERSA    230 

A  BLACKLIST  232 

AUTHORITY    232 

THE  PSORIAD 233 

PEACE  237 

THANKSGIVING  237 

L'AUDACE    240 

THE  GOD'S  VIEW-POINT.. 241 

THE  ESTHETES  245 

WITH    MINE    OWN    PE 
TARD   246 

RESTORED  247 

SIRES  AND  SONS 249 

A  CHALLENGE   249 

Two  SHOWS  251 

A  POET'S  HOPE 252 

THE    WOMAN    AND    THE 

DEVIL   254 

Two  ROGUES   255 

THE     PIED     PIPER     OF 

BROOKLYN    257 

NOT  GUILTY    257 

PRESENTIMENT    258 

A  STUDY  IN  GRAY 259 

FOR  MERIT  261 

A  BIT  OF  SCIENCE 261 

THE  TABLES  TURNED... 262 
To  A  DEJECTED  POET... 263 

THE  HUMORIST  264 

MONTEFIORE    265 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

DISCRETION    266 

AN  EXILE  266 

THE    DIVISION    SUPERIN 
TENDENT  267 

To  A  PROFESSIONAL  EU 
LOGIST  268 

ELECTION  DAY  • .  270 

THE  MILITIAMAN  271 

A  WELCOME 272 

A  SERENADE  273 

THE  WISE  AND  GOOD... 274 

THE  LOST  COLONEL  275 

FOR  TAT  278 

A  DILEMMA  279 

METEMPSYCHOSIS 281 

THE     SAINT     AND    THE 

MONK  281 

IN  HIGH  LIFE 283 

A  WHIPPER-IN  284 

JUDGMENT   286 

A  BUBBLE  286 

FRANCINE  288 

AN  EXAMPLE  289 

REVENGE    289 

THE  GENESIS  OF  EMBAR 
RASSMENT  291 

IN  CONTUMACIAM  292 

FROM  THE  MINUTES 292 

A  WOMAN  IN  POLITICS  ..  294 
A  BALLAD  OF  PiKEviLLE.295 
AN  AUGURY  298 


PAGE 
Lusus  POLITICUS  299 

BEREAVEMENT  •  301 

A  PICKBRAIN 302 

THE    NAVAL    CONSTRUC 
TOR  302 

DETECTED    304 

BIMETALISM    304 

Two  METHODS  306 

FOUNDATIONS      OF      THE 

STATE   306 

AN  IMPOSTOR  308 

FRANCE  .309 

A  GUEST 310 

A  FALSE  PROPHECY 311 

A  SONG  OF  THE  MANY.. 312 

ONE  MORNING  313 

THE  KING  OF  BORES 313 

HISTORY  314 

THE  HERMIT  315 

THE  YEARLY  LIE 317 

AN  APOLOGUE  318 

DIAGNOSIS    319  j/ 

FALLEN    319 

DIES  IR.E 320 

ONE  MOOD'S  EXPRESSION. 326 
SOMETHING  IN   THE   PA 
PERS  327 

THE  BINNACLE   328 

ONE  PRESIDENT 329 

THE  BRIDE  329 

THE  MAN  BORN  BLIND.. 330 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  NIGHTMARE  333 

A  WET  SEASON 333 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAGS.335 

K;EC  FABULA  DOCET 337 

AGAIN    338 

HOMO  PODUNKENSIS  340 

A  SOCIAL  CALL 341 

MY  DAY  OF  LIFE 342 

SOME        ANTE  -  MORTEM 
EPITAPHS 

A  KING  OF  CRAFT 347 

STEPHEN  DORSEY  348 

MR.  JUSTICE  FIELD 349 

GENERAL  B.  F.  BUTLER. 349 

REPARATION    350 

DISINCORPORATED    3  50 

A  KIT  351 

DISJUNCTUS  351 

A  TRENCHER-KNIGHT 351 

A  VICE-PRESIDENT 352 

A  WASTED  LIFE. 353 

THE  SCRAP  HEAP 

POESY   357 

HOSPITALITY    357 

MAGNANIMITY 357 

UNDERSTATED 358 

AN   ATTORNEY-GENERAL.^  58 

FINANCIAL   NEWS    358 

ASPIRATION    359 

DEMOCRACY  359 


PAGE 
AN  ENEMY  TO  LAW  AND 

ORDER  359 

FORESIGHT    360 

A   FAIR  DIVISION 360 

A  LACKING  FACTOR 360 

THE  POLITICIAN 361 

ELIHU  ROOT  361 

AN  ERROR  361 

VANISHED       AT       COCK 
CROW   362 

WOMAN    362 

A  PARTISAN'S  PROTEST  ..362 
A  BEQUEST  TO  Music... 363 

ONEIROMANCY    363 

JULY  FOURTH  363 

A  PARADOX 364 

REEDIFIED  364 

A  BULLETIN  364 

AN  INSCRIPTION  365 

AN  ERRONEOUS  ASSUMP 
TION    365 

A  CONSTRUCTOR  365 

GOD  COMPLIES  366 

IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS 366 

THE  DISCOVERERS 366 

UNEXPOUNDED  366 

THE      EASTERN      QUES 
TION    367 

Two  TYPES   367 

To    A    CRITIC   OF   TEN 
NYSON  367 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

COOPERATION  368 

HUMILITY   368 

STRAINED  RELATIONS  368 

EXONERATION 369 

AFTER  PORTSMOUTH 369 

A  VOICE  FROM  PEKIN...369 

A  Pious  RITE 370 

JUSTICE 370 

AT  THE  BEACH 370 

AN   INFRACTION   OF  THE 

RULES  371 

CONVERSELY  371 

A  WARNING 371 

PSYCHOGRAPHS 372 


PAGE 

FOR  WOUNDS 372 

A  LITERARY  METHOD 372 

BACK  TO  NATURE 373 

RUDOLPH  BLOCK 373 

BOYCOTT  373 

To  HER 374 

CREATION  374 

REBUKE 374 

PRAYER  375 

THE  LONG  FEAR 375 

AN    INSPIRED    PERFORM 
ANCE  375 

SEPULTURE  376 


SHAPES  OF  CLAY 


THE   PASSING  SHOW 

I 

I  know  not  if  it  was  a  dream.    I  viewed 
A  city  where  the  restless  multitude, 

Between  the  eastern  and  the  western  deep 
Had  reared  gigantic  fabrics,  strong  and  rude. 

Colossal  palaces  crowned  every  height; 
Towers  from  valleys  climbed  into  the  light; 

O'er  dwellings  at  their  feet,  great  golden  domes 
Hung  in  the  blue,  barbarically  bright. 

But  now,  new-glimmering  to-east,  the  day 
Touched  the  black  masses  with  a  grace  of  gray, 

Dim  spires  of  temples  to  the  nation's  God 
Studding  high  spaces  of  the  wide  survey. 

Well  did  the  roofs  their  solemn  secret  keep 
Of  life  and  death  stayed  by  the  truce  of  sleep, 
Yet  whispered  of  an  hour  when  sleepers  wake, 
The  fool  to  hope  afresh,  the  wise  to  weep. 


20      THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  gardens  greened  upon  the  builded  hills 
Above  the  tethered  thunders  of  the  mills 

With  sleeping  wheels  unstirred  to  service  yet 
By  the  tamed  torrents  and  the  quickened  rills. 

A  hewn  acclivity,  reprieved  a  space, 

Looked  on  the  builder's  blocks  about  his  base 

And  bared  his  wounded  breast  in  sign  to  say: 
"  Strike !  'tis  my  destiny  to  lodge  your  race, 

"  'Twas  but  a  breath  ago  the  mammoth  browsed 
Upon  my  slopes,  and  in  my  caves  I  housed 

Your  shaggy  fathers  in  their  nakedness, 
While  on  their  foemen's  offal  they  caroused." 

Ships  from  afar  afforested  the  bay. 

Within  their  huge  and  chambered  bodies  lay 

The  wealth  of  continents;  and  merrily  sailed 
The  hardy  argosies  to  far  Cathay. 

Beside  the  city  of  the  living  spread — 
Strange  fellowship! — the  city  of  the  dead; 

And  much  I  wondered  what  its  humble  folk, 
To  see  how  bravely  they  were  housed,  had  said. 

Noting  how  firm  their  habitations  stood, 
Broad-based  and  free  of  perishable  wood — 

How  deep  in  granite  and  how  high  in  brass 
The  names  were  wrought  of  eminent  and  good, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          21 

I  said :    "  When  gold  or  power  is  their  aim, 
The  smile  of  beauty  or  the  wage  of  shame, 

Men  dwell  in  cities;  to  this  place  they  fare 
When  they  would  conquer  an  abiding  fame." 

From  the  red  East  the  sun — a  solemn  rite — 
Crowned  with  a  flame  the  cross  upon  a  height 

Above  the  dead;  and  then  with  all  his  strength 
Struck  the  great  city  all  aroar  with  light! 


II 


I  know  not  if  it  was  a  dream.     I  came 
Unto  a  land  where  something  seemed  the  same 
That  I  had  known  as  'twere  but  yesterday, 
But  what  it  was  I  could  not  rightly  name. 

It  was  a  strange  and  melancholy  land, 
Silent  and  desolate.    On  either  hand 

Lay  waters  of  a  sea  that  seemed  as  dead, 
And  dead  above  it  seemed  the  hills  to  stand. 

Grayed  all  with  age,  those  lonely  hills — ah  me, 
How  worn  and  weary  they  appeared  to  be! 
Between  their  feet  long  dusty  fissures  clove 
The  plain  in  aimless  windings  to  the  sea. 


22      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

One  hill  there  was  which,  parted  from  the  rest, 
Stood  where  the  eastern  water  curved  a-west. 
Silent  and  passionless  it  stood.     I  thought 
I  saw  a  scar  upon  its  giant  breast. 

The  sun  with  sullen  and  portentous  gleam 
Hung  like  a  menace  on  the  sea's  extreme ; 

Nor  the  dead  waters,  nor  the  far,  bleak  bars 
Of  cloud  were  conscious  of  his  failing  beam. 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  dreadful  sight, 
That  desert  in  its  cold,  uncanny  light; 

No  soul  but  I  alone  to  mark  the  fear 
And  imminence  of  everlasting  night! 

All  presages  and  prophecies  of  doom 
Glimmered  and  babbled  in  the  ghastly  gloom, 

And  in  the  midst  of  that  accursed  scene 
A  wolf  sat  howling  on  a  broken  tomb. 


ELIXIR 


Of  life's  elixir  I  had  writ,  when  sleep 

(Pray  Heaven  it  spared  him  who  the  writing  read!) 

Settled  upon  my  senses  with  so  deep 

A  stupefaction  that  men  thought  me  dead. 

The  centuries  stole  by  with  noiseless  tread, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          23 

Like  spectres  in  the  twilight  of  my  dream ; 
I  saw  mankind  in  dim  procession  sweep 
Through  life,  oblivion  at  each  extreme. 
Meanwhile  my  beard,  like  Barbarossa's  growing, 
Loaded  my  lap  and  o'er  my  knees  was  flowing. 


The  generations  came  with  dance  and  song, 

And  each  observed  me  curiously  there. 

Some  asked:    "  Who  was  he?  "    Others  in  the  throng 

Replied :  "  A  wicked  monk  who  slept  at  prayer." 

Some  said  I  was  a  saint,  and  some  a  bear — 

These  all  were  women.    So  the  young  and  gay, 

Visibly  wrinkling  as  they  fared  along, 

Doddered  at  last  on  failing  limbs  away ; 

Though  some,  their  footing  in  my  beard  entangled, 

Fell  into  its  abysses  and  were  strangled. 

At  last  a  generation  came  that  walked 
More  slowly  forward  to  the  common  tomb, 
Then  altogether  stopped.    The  women  talked 
Excitedly;  the  men,  with  eyes  agloom 
Looked  darkly  orl  them  with  a  look  of  doom; 
And  one  cried  out:   "We  are  immortal  now — 
How  need  we  these?"    And  a  dread  figure  stalked, 
Silent,  with  gleaming  axe  and  shrouded  brow, 
And  all  men  cried:    "  Decapitate  the  women, 
Or  soon  there'll  be  no  room  to  stand  or  swim  in ! " 


24      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

So  (in  my  dream)  each  lovely  head  was  chopped 
From  its  fair  shoulders,  and  but  men  alone 
Were  left  in  all  the  world.    Birth  being  stopped, 
Enough  of  room  remained  in  every  zone, 
And  Peace  ascended  Woman's  vacant  throne. 
Thus,  life's  elixir  being  found  (the  quacks 
Their  bread-and-butter  in  it  gladly  sopped) 
'Twas  made  worth  having  by  the  headsman's  axe. 
Seeing  which,  I  gave  myself  a  hearty  shaking, 
And  crumbled  all  to  powder  in  the  waking. 


CONVALESCENT 

What!  "  Out  of  danger?"  Can  the  slighted  Dame 
Or  canting  Pharisee  no  more  defame? 
Will  Treachery  caress  my  hand  no  more, 
Nor  Hatred  lie  alurk  about  my  door? — 
Ingratitude,  with  benefits  dismissed, 
Not  understanding  what  'tis  all  about, 
Will  Envy  henceforth  not  retaliate 
For  virtues  it  were  vain  to  emulate? 
Will  Ignorance  my  knowledge  fail  to  scout, 
Not  understanding  what  'tis  all  about, 
Yet  feeling  in  its  light  so  mean  and  small 
That  all  his  little  soul  is  turned  to  gall? 

What !  "  Out  of  danger  ?  "  Jealousy  disarmed  ? 
Greed  from  exaction  magically  charmed  ? 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          25 

Ambition  stayed  from  trampling  whom  it  meets. 

Like  horses  fugitive  in  crowded  streets? 

The  Bigot,  with  his  candle,  book  and  bell, 

Tongue-tied,  unlunged  and  paralyzed  as  well? 

The  Critic  righteously  to  justice  haled, 

His  own  ear  to  the  post  securely  nailed — 

What  most  he  dreads  unable  to  inflict, 

And  powerless  to  hawk  the  faults  he's  picked? 

The  Liar  choked  upon  his  choicest  lie, 

And  impotent  alike  to  vilify 

Or  flatter  for  the  gold  of  thrifty  men 

Who  hate  his  person  but  employ  his  pen — 

Who  love  and  loathe,  respectively,  the  dirt 

Belonging  to  his  character  an'd  shirt? 

What !     "  Out  of  danger  ?  " — Nature's  minions  all, 
Like  hounds  returning  to  the  huntsman's  call, 
Obedient  to  the  unwelcome  note 

That  stays  them  from  the  quarry's  bursting  throat? — 
Famine  and  Pestilence  and  Earthquake  dire, 
Torrent  and  Tempest,  Lightning,  Frost  and  Fire, 
The  soulless  Tiger  and  the  mindless  Snake, 
The  noxious  Insect  from  the  stagnant  lake, — 
These  from  their  immemorial  prey  restrained, 
Their  fury  baffled  and  their  power  chained  ? 
I'm  safe?    Is  that  what  the  physician  said? 
What!     "Out  of  danger?"    Then,  by  Heaven,  I'm 
dead! 


26      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


AT  THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   CANVASS 

'Twas  a  Venerable   Person,   whom   I   met  one   Sunday 
morning, 

All  appareled  as  a  prophet  of  a  melancholy  sect; 
And  in  a  Jeremiad  of  objurgatory  warning 

He  lifted  up  his  jodel  to  the  following  effect: 

"  O  ye  sanguinary  statesmen,  intermit  your  verbal  tussles ! 

O  ye  editors  and  orators,  consent  to  hear  my  lay! 
Rest  a  little  while  the  digital  and  maxillary  muscles 

And  attend  to  what  a  Venerable  Person  has  to  say. 

"  Cease  your  writing,  cease  your  shouting,   cease  your 

wild  unearthly  lying; 
Cease  to  bandy  such  expressions  as  are  never,  never 

found 

In  the  letter  of  a  lover;  cease  "exposing"  and  "replying" 
Let  there  be  abated  fury  and  a  decrement  of  sound. 

"  For  to-morrow  will  be  Monday  and  the  fifth  day  of 

November — 

Only  day  of  opportunity  before  the  final  rush. 
Carpe  diem!  go  conciliate  each  person  who's  a  member 
Of  the  other  party — do  so  while  you  can  without  a 
blush.  » 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          27 

"  Lo !  the  time  is  close  upon  you  when  the  madness  of 

the  season 
Having   howled    itself    to   silence   like   a   Minnesota 

'clone, 
Will  at  last  be  superseded  by  the  still,  small  voice  of 

reason, 

When  the  whelpage  of  your  folly  you  would  willingly 
disown. 

"Ah,  'tis  mournful  to  consider  what  remorses  will  be 

thronging, 

With  a  consciousness  of  having  been  so  ghastly  indis 
creet, 

When  by  accident  untoward  two  ex-gentlemen  belonging 
To  the  opposite  political  denominations  meet! 

"Yes,  'tis  melancholy,  truly,  to  forecast  the  fierce,  unruly 
Supersurging  of  their  blushes,  like  the  flushes  upon  high 
When  Aurora  Borealis  lights  her  circumpolar  palace 
And  in  customary  manner  sets  her  banner  in  the  sky. 

"  Each  will  think :    '  This  falsifier  knows  that  I  too  am 

a  liar. 

Curse  him  for  a  son  of  Satan,  all  unholily  compound! 
Curse  my  leader  for  another!     Curce  that  pelican,  my 

mother! 

Would  to  God  that  I  when  little  in  my  victual  had 
been  drowned! '  " 


28      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Then  that  venerable  warner  disappeared  around  a  cor 
ner, 

And  the  season  of  unreason  having  also  taken  flight, 
All  the  cheeks  of  men  were  burning  like  the  skies  to 

crimson  turning 
When  Aurora  Borealis  fires  her  premises  by  night. 


GEOTHEOS 

As  sweet  as  the  look  of  a  lover 
Saluting  the  eyes  of  a  maid 
That  blossom  to  blue  as  the  maid 

Is  ablush  to  the  glances  above  her, 
The  sunshine  is  gilding  the  glade 
And  lifting  the  lark  out  of  shade. 

Sing  therefore  high  praises,  and  therefore 
Sing  songs  that  are  ancient  as  gold, 
Of  earth  in  her  garments  of  gold ; 

Nor  ask  of  their  meaning,  nor  wherefore 
They  charm  as  of  yore,  for  behold ! 
The  Earth  is  as  fair  as  of  old. 

Sing  songs  of  the  pride  of  the  mountains, 
And  songs  of  the  strength  of  the  seas, 
And  the  fountains  that  fall  to  the  seas 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          29 

From  the  hands  of  the  hills,  and  the  fountains 
That  shine  in  the  temples  of  trees, 
In  valleys  of  roses  and  bees. 

Sing  songs  that  are  dreamy  and  tender, 

Of  slender  Arabian  palms, 

And  shadows  that  circle  the  palms, 
Where  caravans  out  of  the  splendor, 

Are  kneeling  in  blossoms  and  balms, 

In  islands  of  infinite  calms. 

Barbaric,  O  Man,  was  thy  runing 

When  mountains  were  stained  as  with  wine 
By  the  dawning  of  Time,  and  as  wine 

Were  the  seas,  yet  its  echoes  are  crooning, 
Achant  in  the  gusty  pine 
And  the  pulse  of  the  poet's  line. 


POLITICS 

That  land  full  surely  hastens  to  its  end 
Where  public  sycophants  in  homage  bend 
The  populace  to  flatter,  and  repeat 
The  doubled  echoes  of  its  loud  conceit. 
Lowly  their  attitude  but  high  their  aim, 
They  creep  to  eminence  through  paths  of  shame, 
Till,  fixed  securely  in  the  seats  of  pow'r, 
The  dupes  they  flattered  they  at  last  devour. 


30      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE   VALLEY    OF    DRY   BONES 

With  crow  bones  all  the  land  is  white, 

From  the  gates  of  morn  to  the  gates  of  night. 

Picked  clean,  they  lie  on  the  cumbered  ground, 

And  the  politician's  paunch  is  round ; 

And  he  strokes  it  down  and  across  as  he  sings: 

"  I've  eaten  my  fill  of  the  legs  and  wings, 

The  neck,  the  back,  the  pontifical  nose, 

Breast,  belly  and  gizzard,  for  everything  goes. 

The  meat  that's  dark  (and  there's  none  that's  white) 

Exceeded  the  need  of  my  appetite, 

But  I've  bravely  stuck  to  the  needful  work 

That  a  hungry  domestic  hog  would  shirk. 

I've  eaten  the  fowl  that  the  Fates  commend 

To  reluctant  lips  of  the  People's  Friend. 

Rank  unspeakably,  bitter  as  gall, 

Is  the  bird,  but  I've  eaten  it,  feathers  and  all. 

I'm  a  dutiful  statesman,  I  am,  although 

I  really  don't  like  a  diet  of  crow. 

So  I've  dined  all  alone  in  a  furtive  way, 

But  my  platter  I've  cleaned  every  blessed  day. 

They  say  that  I  bolt ;  so  I  do — my  bird ; 

They  say  that  I  sulk,  but  they've  widely  erred ! 

O   Lord!   if   my  enemies  only   knew 

How  I'm  full  to  the  throat  with  the  corvic  stew 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          31 

They'd  open  their  ears  to  hear  me  profess 

The  faith  compelled  by  the  corvic  stress, 

(For,  alas!  necessity  knows  no  law) 

In  the  heavenly  caucus — '  Caw !  Caw !  Caw ! '  " 

And  that  ornithanthropical  person  tried 
By  flapping  his  arms  on  the  air  to  ride; 
But  I  knew  by  the  way  that  he  clacked  his  bill 
He  was  just  the  poor,  featherless  biped,  Dave  Hill. 
1896. 

POLYPHEMUS 

Fwas  a  sick  young  man  with  a  face  ungay 

And  an  eye  that  was  all  alone ; 
And  he  shook  his  head  in  a  hopeless  way 
As  he  sat  on  a  roadside  stone. 

"  O,  ailing  youth,  what  untoward  fate 

Has  made  the  sun  to  set 

On  your  mirth  and  eye  ?  "  "  I'm  constrained  to 
state 

I'm  an  ex-West  Point  cadet. 

'  'Twas  at  cannon-practice  I  got  my  hurt 

And  my  present  frame  of  mind; 
For  the  gun  went  off  with  a  double  spurt — 

Before  it,  and  also  behind !  " 


32      THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  How  sad,  how  sad,  that  a  fine  young  chap, 

When  studying  how  to  kill, 
Should  meet  with  so  terrible  a  mishap 

Precluding  eventual  skill. 

"  Ah,  woful  to  think  that  a  weapon  made 

For  mowing  down  the  foe 
Should  commit  so  dreadful  an  escapade 

As  to  turn  about  to  mow !  " 

No  more  he  heeded  while  I  condoled : 
He  was  wandering  in  his  mind; 

His  lonely  eye  unconsidered  rolled, 
And  his  views  he  thus  defined: 

"  'Twas  O  for  a  breach  of  the  peace — 'twas  O 

For  an  international  brawl! 
But  a  piece  of  the  breech — ah  no,  ah  no, 

I  didn't  want  that  at  all." 


IN    DEFENSE 

You  may  say  if  you  please,  Johnny  Bull,  that  our  girls 
Are  crazy  to  marry  your  dukes  and  your  earls  ; 
But  I've  heard  that  the  maids  of  your  own  little  isle 
Greet  bachelor  lords  with  a  favoring  smile. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          33 

Nay,  titles,  'tis  said  in  defense  of  our  fair, 
Are  popular  here  because  popular  there; 
And  for  them  our  ladies  persistently  ,go 
Because  'tis  exceedingly  English,  you  know. 

Whatever  the  motive,  you'll  have  to  confess 

The  effort's  attended  with  easy  success; 

And — pardon  the  freedom — 'tis  thought,  over  here, 

'Tis  mortification  you  mask  with  a  sneer. 

It's  all  very  well,  sir,  your  scorn  to  parade 

Of  the  high  nasal  twang  of  the  Yankee  maid, 

But,  ah,  to  my  lord  when  he  dares  to  propose 

No  sound  is  so  sweet  as  that  "  Yes  "  from  the  nose. 

Ah,  well,  if  the  dukes  and  the  earls  and  that  lot 
Can  stand  it  (God  succor  them  if  they  can  not!) 
Your  commoners  ought  to  assent,  I  am  sure, 
And  what  they're  not  called  on  to  suffer,  endure. 

"  'Tis  nothing  but  money  ? — your  nobles  are  bought  "  ? 
As  to  that,  I  submit,  it  is  commonly  thought 
That  England's  a  country  not  specially  free 
Of  Crcesi  and  (if  you'll  allow  it)  Croesae. 

You've  many  a  widow  and  many  a  girl 
With  money  to  purchase  a  duke  or  an  earl. 


34      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

'Tis  a  very  remarkable  thing,  you'll  agree, 
When  goods  import  buyers  from  over  the  sea. 

Alas  for  the  woman  of  Albion's  isle! 
She  may  simper ;  as  well  as  she  can  she  may  smile ; 
She  may  wear  pantalettes  and  an  air  of  repose — 
But  my  lord  of  the  future  will  talk  through  his  nose. 


INVOCATION 

Read  at  the  Celebration  of  Independence  in  San  Francisco,  in 
1888. 

Goddess  of  Liberty!  O  thou 

Whose  tearless  eyes  behold  the  chain, 
And  look  unmoved  upon  the  slain, 

Eternal  peace  upon  thy  brow, — 

Before  thy  shrine  the  races  press, 
Thy  perfect  favor  to  implore — 
The  proudest  tyrant  asks  no  more, 

The  ironed  anarchist  no  less. 

Thine  altar-coals  that  touch  the  lips 
Of  prophets  kindle,  too,  the  brand 
By  Discord  flung  with  wanton  hand 

Among  the  houses  and  the  ships. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          35 

Upon  thy  tranquil  front  the  star 

Burns  bleak  and  passionless  and  white, 
Its  cold  inclemency  of  light 

More  dreadful  than  the  shadows  are. 

Thy  name  we  do  not  here  invoke 

Our  civic  rites  to  sanctify: 

Enthroned  in  thy  remoter  sky, 
Thou  heedest  not  our  broken  yoke. 

Thou  carest  not  for  such  as  we: 

Our  millions  die  to  serve  the  still 

And  secret  purpose  of  thy  will. 
They  perish — what  is  that  to  thee? 

The  light  that  fills  the  patriot's  tomb 
Is  not  of  thee.     The  shining  crown 
Compassionately  offered  down 

To  those  who  falter  in  the  gloom, 

And  fall,  and  call  upon  thy  name, 

And  die  desiring — 'tis  the  sign 

Of  a  diviner  love  than  thine, 
Rewarding  with  a  richer  fame. 

To  him  alone  let  freemen  cry 

Who  hears  alike  the  victor's  shout, 


36      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

The  song  of  faith,  the  moan  of  doubt, 
And  bends  him  from  his  nearer  sky. 


God  of  my  country  and  my  race! 
So  greater  than  the  gods  of  old — 
So  fairer  than  the  prophets  told 

Who  dimly  saw  and  feared  thy  face, — 

Who  didst  but  half  reveal  thy  will 
And  gracious  ends  to  their  desire, 
Behind  the  dawn's  advancing  fire 

Thy  tender  day-beam  veiling  still, — 

To  whom  the  unceasing  suns  belong, 
And  cause  is  one  with  consequence, — 
To  whose  divine,  inclusive  sense 

The  moan  is  blended  with  the  song, — 

Whose  laws,  imperfect  and  unjust, 
Thy  just  and  perfect  purpose  serve: 
The  needle,  howsoe'er  it  swerve, 

Still  warranting  the  sailor's  trust,— 

God,  lift  thy  hand  and  make  us  free 
To  crown  the  work  thou  hast  designed. 
O,  strike  away  the  chains  that  bind 

Our  souls  to  one  idolatry ! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          37 

The  liberty  thy  love  hath  given 

We  thank  thee  for.    We  thank  thee  for 
Our  great  dead  fathers'  holy  war 

Wherein  our  manacles  were  riven. 

We  thank  thee  for  the  stronger  stroke 
Ourselves  delivered  and  incurred 
When — thine  incitement  half  unheard — 

The  chains  we  riveted  we  broke. 

We  thank  thee  that  beyond  the  sea 

Thy  people,  growing  ever  wise, 

Turn  to  the  west  their  serious  eyes 
And  dumbly  strive  to  be  as  we. 

As  when  the  sun's  returning  flame 
Upon  the  Nileside  statue  shone, 
And  struck  from  the  enchanted  stone 

The  music  of  a  mighty  fame, 

Let  Man  salute  the  rising  day 

Of  Liberty,  but  not  adore. 

'Tis  Opportunity — no  more — 
A  useful,  not  a  sacred,  ray. 

It  bringeth  good,  it  bringeth  ill, 
As  he  possessing  shall  elect. 


38      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

He  maketh  it  of  none  effect 
Who  walketh  not  within  thy  will. 

Give  thou  more  or  less,  as  we 

Shall  serve  the  right  or  serve  the  wrong. 
Confirm  our  freedom  but  so  long 

As  we  are  worthy  to  be  free. 

But  when  (O,  distant  be  the  time!) 
Majorities  in  passion  draw 
Insurgent  swords  to  murder  Law, 

And  all  the  land  is  red  with  crime; 

Or — nearer  menace ! — when  the  band 
Of  feeble  spirits  cringe  and  plead 
To  the  gigantic  strength  of  Greed, 

And  fawn  upon  his  iron  hand, — 

Nay,  when  the  steps  to  state  are  worn 
In  hollows  by  the  feet  of  thieves, 
And  Mammon  sits  among  the  sheaves 

And  chuckles  while  the  reapers  mourn: 

Then  stay  thy  miracle! — replace 

The  broken  throne,  repair  the  chain, 
Restore  the  interrupted  reign 

And  veil  again  thy  patient  face. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          39 

Lo!  here  upon  the  world's  extreme 
We  stand  with  lifted  arms  and  dare 
By  thine  eternal  name  to  swear 

Our  country,  which  so  fair  we  deem — 

Upon  whose  hills,  a  bannered  throng, 

The  spirits  of  the  sun  display 

Their  flashing  lances  day  by  day 
And  hear  the  sea's  pacific  song — 

Shall  be  so  ruled  in  right  and  grace 
That  men  shall  say:   "  O,  drive  afield 
The  lawless  eagle  from  the  shield, 

And  call  an  angel  to  the  place !  " 


RELIGION 

Hassan  Bedreddin,  clad  in  rags,  ill-shod, 
Sought  the  great  temple  of  the  living  God. 

The  worshipers  arose  and  drove  him  forth, 
And  one  in  power  beat  him  with  a  rod. 

"Allah,"  he  cried,  "thou  seest  what  I  got: 
Thy  servants  bar  me  from  the  sacred  spot." 

"  Be  comforted,"  the  Holy  One  replied ; 
"  It  is  the  only  place  where  I  am  not." 


40      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


TWO   SOCIALISTS 

Brand  Whitlock  sped  from  Hell  through 
space, 

To  be  remanded  never — 
For  having  such  a  saintly  face, 

Set  free  forever, 

With  due  apology.    He  came 
To  a  world  so  base  and  bestial 

No  tongue  infernal  spake  its  name — 
No  tongue  celestial. 

So  foul  it  was  that  even  He 
Had  cast  it  off  Who  made  it: 

Adrift  in  space,  as  on  a  sea, 
No  mooring  stayed  it 

That  orb  unclean,  denied  the  aid 

Of  gravitation's  tether, 
For  centuries  had  blindly  strayed — 

Lost  altogether! 

The  sun  disdainfully  declined 

To  light  the  villain  planet, 
And  the  whole  universe  combined 

To  curse  and  ban  it. 


41 

The  Thief  Impenitent,  his  grim 

Recusance  unabated, 
Was  its  sole  occupant:  for  him 

It  was  created. 

For  when  the  wretch  was  newly  dead 
'Twas  thought  Hell  had  not  ample 

Restraints  to  check  the  local  spread 
Of  his  example, 

Nor  apparatus  that  insured 

A  proper  pang;  though  lately 
The  woes  that  he  at  first  endured 

Had  softened  greatly. 

But  still  one  fierce,  vain  longing  he 
Suffered,  nor  could  o'ercome  it — 

The  wish  to  sit  in  reverie 
On  Calvary's  summit. 

Beneath  that  orb's  unjoyous  sky 
Brand  Whitlock  found  the  sinner. 

Affinity ! — the  outer  eye 
Lit  by  the  inner. 

Said  Whitlock :     "  Here  my  stay  is  brief ; 
Take,  brother,  ere  we  sever, 


42      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Thy  pardon.    Be  a  better  thief 
Henceforth  forever. 

"  God  gives  me  power  to  condone 

All  scalawags'  offending, 
For  the  sweet  faith  that  I  have  shown 

In  their  amending." 

When  so  he'd  said  with  solemn  grace » 
As  was  that  good  soul's  habit, 

The  Thief  directly  into  space 
Sprang  like  a  rabbit! 

(He  might  have  left  at  any  time 
Had  freedom  been  his  passion, 

For  God  had  long  forgot  his  crime. 
Crime  was  the  fashion.) 

The  Saint,  resuming  soon  his  flight, 
Met  him  through  chaos  floating. 

Three  stolen  post-holes  that  poor  wight 
Was  gaily  toting. 


A  MORNING  FANCY 

I  drifted  (or  I  seemed  to)  in  a  boat 

Upon  the  surface  of  a  shoreless  sea 
Whereon  no  ship  nor  anything  did  float, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          43 

Save  only  the  frail  bark  supporting  me; 

And  that — it  was  so  shadowy — seemed  to  be 
Almost  from  out  the  subtle  azure  wrought 

Of  the  great  ocean  underneath  its  keel; 
And  all  that  blue  profound  appeared  as  naught 

But  thicker  sky,  translucent  to  reveal, 
Miles  down,  whatever  through  its  spaces  glided, 
Or  at  the  bottom  traveled  or  abided. 

Great  cities  there  I  saw;  of  rich  and  poor 

The  palace  and  the  hovel ;  mountains,  vales, 
Forest  and  field;  the  desert  and  the  moor; 

Tombs  of  the  good  and  wise  who'd  lived  in  jails ; 

Seas  of  a  denser  fluid,  white  with  sails 
Pushed  at  by  currents  moving  here  and  there 

And  sensible  to  sight  above  the  flat 
Of  that  opaquer  deep.     Ah,  strange  and  fair 

The  nether  world  that  I  was  gazing  at 
With  beating  heart  from  that  exalted  level, 
And,  lest  I  founder,  trembling  like  the  devil! 

The  cities  all  were  populous :  men  swarmed 

In  public  places — chattered,  laughed  and  wept; 

And  savages  their  shining  bodies  warmed 

At  fires  in  primal  woods.    The  wild  beast  leapt 
Upon  its  prey  and  slew  it  as  it  slept. 

Armies  went  forth  to  battle  on  the  plain 


44      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

So  far,  far  down  in  that  unfathomed  deep 
The  living  seemed  as  silent  as  the  slain, 

Nor  even  the  widows  could  be  heard  to  weep. 
One  might  have  thought  their  shaking  was  but 

laughter ; 
And,  truly,  most  were  married  shortly  after. 

Above  the  wreckage  of  that  silent  fray 

Strange  fishes  swam  in  circles,  round  and  round- 
Black,  double-finned ;  and  once  a  little  way 
A  bubble  rose  and  burst  without  a  sound 
And  a  man  tumbled  out  upon  the  ground. 
Lord!  'twas  an  eerie  thing  to  drift  apace 

On  that  pellucid  sea,  beneath  black  skies 
And  o'er  the  heads  of  an  undrowning  race! 
And  when  I  woke  I  said — to  her  surprise 
Who  came  with  chocolate,  for  me  to  drink  it: 
"  The  atmosphere  is  deeper  than  you  think  it." 


VISIONS  OF  SIN 

KRASLAJORSK,  SIBERIA. — My  eyes  are  better,  and  I  shall  travel 
slowly  toward  home. — DANENHOWER. 

From  the  regions  of  the  Night, 
Coming  with  recovered  sight — 
From  the  spell  of  darkness  free, 
What  will  Danenhower  see  ? 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          45 

He  will  see  when  he  arrives 
Doctors  taking  human  lives. 
He  will  see  a  learned  judge 
Whose  decision  will  not  budge 
Till  both  litigants  are  fleeced 
And  his  palm  is  duly  greased. 
Lawyers  he  will  see  who  fight 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night; 
Never  both  upon  a  side, 
Though  their  fees  they  still  divide. 
Preachers  he  will  see  who  teach 
That  it  is  divine  to  preach — 
That  they  fan  a  sacred  fire 
And  are  worthy  of  their  hire. 
He  will  see  a  trusted  wife, 
Pride  of  some  good  husband's  life, 
Enter  at  a  certain  door 
And — but  he  will  see  no  more. 
He  will  see  Good  Templars  reel — 
See  a  prosecutor  steal, 
And  a  father  beat  his  child. 
He'll  perhaps  see  Oscar  Wilde. 

From  the  regions  of  the  Night 
Coming  with  recovered  sight — 
From  the  bliss  of  blindness  free, 
That's  what  Danenhower'll  see. 
1882. 


46      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

GENIUS 

What  is  the  thing  called  Genius?     One  has  said 

'Tis  general  ability  directed 
Into  a  special  channel.     One,  instead, 

Proffers  a  definition  much  respected 
By  toiling  dullards:  genius,  he  explains, 
Is  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains. 

Max  Nordau,  seeing  he  has  not  the  thing, 
Has  solemnly  decided,  with  Lombroso, 

That  genius  is  degeneracy.     Ring 

The  curtain  down — the  show  is  only  so-so; 

I'd  rather  see  a  dog-fight  than  sit  out 

This  inconclusive  definition-bout. 

What,  then,  is  genius?    Faith,  I'm  only  sure 
That  I  am  deep  in  doubt  about  the  matter; 

But  this  I  think:  of  two  in  literature 

He  is  the  greater  genius  who's  the  fatter. 

'Twas  in  an  age  less  prosperous  that  those 

Were  kings  of  thought  who  starved  by  verse  and 
prose. 

Lo !  the  lean  rhapsodist  whose  soul  surveys, 

Ecstatic,  his  unprofitable  vision, 
Interprets  it  in  cleanly  speech;  arrays 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          47 

His  jeweled  words  with  scholarly  precision! 
Faith,  he's  a  dunce  or  he  would  never  lack 
The  means  to  wedge  his  belly  from  his  back. 

'Twere  passing  easy  to  allay  his  pang 

Had  he  the  genius — that's  to  say,  the  insight 

Commercial.     If  he  would  but  sing  in  slang 

He'd  earn  the  wherewithal  to  make  his  skin  tight. 

Genius  (let's  now  define  the  word  afresh) 

Is  the  capacity  to  take  on  flesh. 

Spirit  of  Letters,  hail!     Thy  reign  is  Now; 

Thy  ministers  are  gentlemen  that  waddle — 
Children  of  light  and  leading  who  avow 

They  swap,  for  tallow,  speech  that's  not  a  model, — 
For  laminated  kidney-suet  trade 
Unsavory  words.     You  must  be  stout,  George  Ade. 


THE  TOWN  OF 


Swains  and  maidens,  young  and  old, 
You  to  me  this  tale  have  told. 

Where  the  squalid  town  of  Dae 
Irks  the  comfortable  sea, 
Spreading  webs  to  gather  fish, 
As  for  wealth  we  set  a  wish, 


48      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Dwelt  a  king  by  right  divine, 
Sprung  from  Adam's  royal  line. 
Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
Divers  kinds  of  kings  there  be. 

Name  nor  fame  had  Picklepip: 
Ne'er  a  soldier  nor  a  ship 
Bore  his  banners  in  the  sun; 

Naught  knew  he  of  kingly  sport, 

And  he  held  his  royal  court 
Under  an  inverted  tun. 
Love  and  roses,  ages  through, 

Bloom  where  cot  and  trellis  stand; 
Never  yet  these  blossoms  grew — 
Never  yet  was  room  for  two — 

In  a  cask  upon  the  strand. 
So  it  happened,  as  it  ought, 
That  his  simple  schemes  he  wrought 
Through  the  lagging  summer's  day 
In  a  solitary  way. 
So  it  happened,  as  was  best, 
That  he  took  his  nightly  rest 

With  no  dreadful  weight  of  woe, 
This  way  eyed  and  that  way  tressed, 

Featured  thus,  and  thus,  and  so, 
Lying  lead-like  on  a  breast 
By  cares  of  state  enough  oppressed. 
Yet  in  dreams  his  fancy  rude 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          49 

Claimed  a  lordly  latitude. 

Town  of  DEC  by  the  sea, 
Dreamers  mate  above  their  state 

And  waken  back  to  their  degree. 

Once  to  cask  himself  away 
He  prepared  at  close  of  day. 
As  he  tugged  with  swelling  throat 
At  a  most  unkingly  coat — 
Not  to  get  it  off  but  on, 
For  the  serving  sun  was  gone — 
Passed  a  silk-appareled  sprite 
Toward  her  castle  on  the  height, 
Seized  and  set  the  garment  right. 
Turned  the  startled  Picklepip 
Splendid  crimson  cheek  and  lip! 
Turned  again  to  sneak  away, 
But  she  bade  the  villain  stay, 
Bade  him  thank  her,  which  he  did 
With  a  speech  that  slipped  and  slid, 
Sprawled  and  stumbled  in  its  gait 
As  a  dancer  tries  to  skate. 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
In  the  face  of  silk  and  lace 

Rags  too  bold  should  never  be. 

Lady  Minnow  cocked  her  head: 
"  Mister   Picklepip,"   she  said, 


50      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  Do  you  ever  think  to  wed  ?  " 
Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 

No  fair  lady  ever  made  a 

Wicked  speech  like  that  to  me! 


Wretched  little  Picklepip 
Said  he  hadn't  any  ship, 
Any  flocks  at  his  command, 
Nor  to  feed  them  any  land; 
Said  he  never  in  his  life 
Owned  a  mine  to  keep  a  wife. 
But  the  guilty  stammer  so 
That  his  meaning  wouldn't  flow; 
So  he  thought  his  aim  to  reach 
By  some  figurative  speech: 
Said  his  Fate  had  been  unkind 
Had  pursued  him  from  behind 

(How  the  mischief  could  it  else?) 
Came  upon  him  unaware, 
Caught  him  all  too  roughly — there 
Gushed  the  little  lady's  glee 

Like  a  gush  of  golden  bells: 
"  Picklepip,  why,  that  is  me ! " 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
Grammar's  for  great  scholars — she 

Loved  the  summer  and  the  lea. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          51 

Stupid  little  Picklepip 
Allowed  the  subtle  hint  to  slip— 
Maundered  on  about  the  ship 
That  he  did  not  chance  to  own; 

Told  this  grievance  o'er  and  o'er, 

Knowing  that  she  knew  before; 
Told  her  how  he  dwelt  alone. 
Lady  Minnow,  for  reply, 
Cut  him  off  with  "  So  do  I." 
But  she  reddened  at  the  fib; 
Servitors  had  she,  ad  lib. 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
In  her  youth  who  speaks  no  truth 

Ne'er  shall  young  and  honest  be. 

Witless  little  Picklepip 

Manned  again  his  mental  ship 

And  veered  her  with  a  sudden  shift: 
Painted  to  the  lady's  thought 
How  he  wrestled  and  he  wrought 

Stoutly  with  the  swimming  drift 
By  the  kindly  river  brought 

From  the  mountain  to  the  sea, 

Fuel  for  the  town  of  Dae. 

Tedious  tale  for  lady's  ear: 
From  her  castle  on  the  height, 
She  had  watched  her  water-knight 
Through  the  seasons  of  a  year 


52      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Challenge  more  than  met  his  view 

And  conquer  better  than  he  knew. 

Now  she  shook  her  pretty  pate 

And  stamped  her  foot — 'twas  growing  late: 

"  Mister  Picklepip,  when  I 

Drifting  seaward  pass  you  by; 

When  the  waves  my  forehead  kiss 

And  my  tresses  float  above — 

Dead  and  drowned  for  lack  of  love — 
You'll  be  sorry,  sir,  for  this !  " 
And  the  silly  creature  cried — 
Feared,  perchance,  the  rising  tide. 

Town  of  Da3  by  the  sea, 
Madam  Adam,  when  she  had  'em. 

May  have  been  as  bad  as  she. 

Fiat  lux!    Love's  lumination 

Fell  in  floods  of  revelation! 

Blinded  brain  by  world  aglare, 

Sense  of  pulses  in  the  air, 

Sense  of  swooning  and  the  beating 

Of  a  voice  somewhere  repeating 

Something  indistinctly  heard! 
And  the  soul  of  Picklepip 
Sprang  upon  his  trembling  lip, 

But  he  spake  no  further  word 

Of  the  wealth  he  did  not  own; 

In  that  moment  had  outgrown 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          53 

Ship  and  mine  and  flock  and  land — 
Even  his  cask  upon  the  strand. 
Dropped  a  stricken  star  to  earth, 
Type  of  wealth  and  worldly  worth. 
Clomb  the  moon  into  the  sky, 
Type  of  love's  immensity! 
Shaking  silver  seemed  the  sea, 
Throne  of  God  the  town  of  Dael 

Town  of  Dae  by  the  sea, 
From  above  there  cometh  love, 

Blessing  all  good  souls  that  be. 


AN  ANARCHIST 

False  to  his  art  and  to  the  high  command 
God  laid  upon  him,  Demagogo's  hand 
Beats  all  in  vain  the  harp  he  thrilled  before: 
It  yields  a  jingle  and  it  yields  no  more. 
No  more  the  strings  beneath  his  finger-tips 
Sing  harmonies  divine.    No  more  his  lips, 
Touched  with  a  living  coal  from  sacred  fires, 
Lead  the  sweet  chorus  of  the  golden  wires. 
The  voice  is  raucous  and  the  phrases  squeak; 
They  labor,  they  complain,  they  sweat,  they  reek! 
The  more  the  wayward,  disobedient  song 
Errs  from  the  right  to  advocate  the  wrong, 


54      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

More  diligently  still  the  singer  strums, 
To  drown  the  horrid  sound,  with  all  his  thumbs. 
Gods,  what  a  spectacle !    The  angels  lean 
Out  of  high  Heaven  to  view  the  sorry  scene, 
And  Israfel,  "  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute," 
Though  now  compassion  makes  their  music  mute, 
Among  the  weeping  company  appears, 
Pearls  in  his  eyes  and  cotton  in  his  ears. 


AN   OFFER   OF   MARRIAGE 

Once  I  "  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see," 
And  saw — it  was  not  Sandow,  nor  John  Sullivan,  but 

she — • 

Emancipated  Woman,  who  was  weeping  as  she  ran 
Here  and  there  for  the  discovery  of  Expurgated  Man. 
But  the  sun  of  Evolution  ever  rose  and  ever  set, 
And  that  tardiest  of  mortals  hadn't  evoluted  yet. 
Hence  the  tears  that  she  cascaded,  hence  the  sighs  that 

tore  apart 

All  the  tendinous  connections  of  her  indurated  heart. 
Cried  Emancipated  Woman,  as  she  wearied  of  the  search: 
"  In  Advancing  I  have  left  myself  distinctly  in  the  lurch ! 
Seeking  still  a  worthy  partner,  from  the  land  of  brutes 

and  dudes 
I  have  penetrated  rashly  into  manless  solitudes. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          55 

Now  without  a  mate  of  any  kind  where  am  I? — that's 

to  say, 
Where  shall  I  be  to-morrow? — where  exert  my  rightful 

sway 

And  the  purifying  strength  of  my  emancipated  mind? 
Can  solitude  be  lifted  up,  vacuity  refined? 
Calling,  calling  from  the  shadows  in  the  rear  of  my 

Advance — 
From  the  region  of  Unprogress  in  the  dark  domain  of 

Chance- 
Long  I  heard  the  Unevolvable  beseeching  my  return 
To  share  the  degradation  he's  reluctant  to  unlearn. 
But   I've  held   my  way   regardless,    evoluting  year  by 

year 
Till  I'm  what  you  now  behold  me — or  would  if  you 

were  here — 

A  condensed  Emancipation  and  a  Purifier  proud, 
An   Independent   Entity  appropriately  loud! 
Independent?     Yes,    in    spirit,    but    (O    woful,    woful 

state!) 
Doomed    to    premature    extinction    by    privation    of    a 

mate — 

To  extinction  or  reversion,  for  Unexpurgated  Man 
Still  awaits  me  in  the  backward  if  I  sicken  of  the  van. 
O  the  horrible  dilemma! — to  be  odiously  linked 
With  an  Undeveloped  Species,  or  become  a  Type  Ex 
tinct!" 


56      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

As  Emancipated  Woman  wailed  her  sorrow  to  the  air, 
Stalking   out   of   desolation   came   a  being  strange   and 

rare — • 
Plato's   Man! — a  biped,    featherless   from   mandible   to 

rump, 
Its  wings  two  quilless  flippers  and  its  tail  a  plumeless 

stump. 
First  it  scratched  and  then  it  clucked,  as  if  in  hospitable 

terms 

It  invited  her  to  banquet  on  imaginary  worms. 
Then  it  strutted  up  before  her  with  a  lifting  of  the  head, 
And  in  accents  of  affection  and  of  sympathy  it  said: 
"  My  estate  is  some'at  'umble,  but  I'm  qualified  to  draw 
Near  the  hymeneal  altar  and  whack  up  my  heart  and 

claw 

To  Emancipated  Anything  as  walks  upon  the  earth ; 
And  them  things  is  at  your  service  for  whatever  they  are 

worth. 
I'm   sure   to  be   congenial,   marm,    nor   e'er   deserve   a 

scowl — 
I'm  Emancipated  Rooster,  I  am  Expurgated  Fowl !  " 

From  the  future  and  its  wonders  I  withdrew  my  gaze, 

and  then 
Wrote  this  wild,  unfestive  lay  of  Evolutionated  Hen. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          57 


ARMA  VIRUMQUE 

"Ours  is  a  Christian  army";  so  he  said 
A  regiment  of  bangomen  who  led. 
"  And  ours  a  Christian  navy,"  added  he 
Who  sailed  a  thunder-junk  upon  the  sea. 
Better  they  know  than  men  unwarlike  do 
What  is  an  army,  and  a  navy  too. 
Pray  God  there  may  be  sent  them  by-and-by 
The  knowledge  what  a  Christian  is,  and  why. 
For  somewhat  lamely  the  conception  runs 
Of  a  brass-buttoned  Jesus  firing  guns. 


ON  A  PROPOSED  CREMATORY 

When  a  fair  bridge  is  builded  o'er  the  gulf 
Between  two  cities,  some  ambitious  fool, 
Hot  for  distinction,  pleads  for  earliest  leave 
To  push  his  clumsy  feet  upon  the  span, 
That  men  in  after  years  may  single  him, 
Saying:  "Behold  the  fool  who  first  went  o'er!" 
So  be  it  when,  as  now  the  promise  is, 
Next  summer  sees  the  edifice  complete 


58      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Which  some  do  name  a  crematorium, 
Within  the  vantage  of  whose  greater  maw's 
Quicker  digestion  we  shall  cheat  the  worm 
And  circumvent  the  handed  mole  who  loves, 
With  tunnel,  adit,  drift  and  roomy  stope, 
To  mine  our  mortal  parts  in  all  their  dips 
And  spurs  and  angles.     Let  the  fool  stand  forth 
To  link  his  name  with  this  fair  enterprise, 
As  first  decarcassed  by  the  flame.     And  if 
With  rival  greedings  for  the  fiery  fame 
They  push  in  clamoring  multitudes,  or  if 
With  unaccustomed  modesty  they  all 
Hold  off,  being  something  loth  to  qualify, 
Let  me  select  the  fittest  for  the  rite. 
By  Heaven!  I'll  make  so  warrantable,  wise 
And  excellent  censure  of  their  true  deserts, 
And  such  a  searching  canvass  of  their  claims, 
That  none  shall  bait  the  allot.     I'll  spread  my 

choice 

Upon  the  main  and  general  of  those 
Who,   moved  of  holy  impulse,  pulpit-born, 
Protested  'twere  a  sacrilege  to  burn 
God's  gracious  images,  designed  to  rot — 
Who  bellowed  for  the  right  of  way  for  each 
Distempered  carrion  through  the  water  pipes. 
With  such  a  sturdy,  boisterous  exclaim 
They  did  discharge  themselves  from  their  own 

throats 


59 


Against  the  splintered  gates  of  audience 
'Twere  wholesomer  to  take  them  in  at  mouth 
Than  ear.     These  shall  burn  first:  their  ignoble 
And  seasoned  substances — trunks,  legs  and  arms, 
Blent  indistinguishable  in  a  mass, 
Like  winter-woven  serpents  in  a  pit, 
None  vantaged  with  unfair  precedency 
And  all  impartially  alive — shall  serve 
As  fueling  to  fervor  the  retort 
For  after  cineration  of  true  men. 


A  DEMAND 

You  promised  to  paint  me  a  picture, 

Dear  Mat, 

And  I  was  to  pay  you  in  rhyme. 
Although  I  am  loth  to  inflict  your 

Most  easy  of  consciences,  I'm 
Of  opinion  that  fibbing  is  awful, 
And  breaking  a  contract  unlawful, 
Indictable,  too,  as  a  crime, 
A  slight  and  all  that. 

If,  Lady  Unbountiful,  any 

Of  that 
By  mortals  called  pity  has  part 


60      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

In  your  obdurate  soul — if  a  penny 

You  care  for  the  health  of  my  heart, 
By  performing  your  undertaking 
You'll  succor  that  organ  from  breaking — 
And  spare  it  for  some  new  smart, 
As  puss  does  a  rat. 


Do  you  think  it  is  very  becoming, 

Dear  Mat, 

To  deny  me  my  rights  evermore? 
And — bless  you!  if  I  begin  summing 

Your  sins  they  will  make  a  long  score! 
You  never  were  generous,  madam: 
If  you  had  been  Eve  and  I  Adam 
You'd  have  given  me  naught  but  the  core, 
And  little  of  that. 


Had  I  been  content  with  a  Titian, 

A  cat 

By  Landseer,  a  meadow  by  Claude, 
No  doubt  I'd  have  had  your  permission 

To  take  it — by  purchase  abroad. 
But  why  should  I  sail  o'er  the  ocean 
For  Landseers  and  Claudes?     I've  a  notion 
All's  bad  that  the  critics  belaud. 
I  wanted  a  Mat. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          61 

Presumption's  a  sin,  and  I  suffer 

For  that: 

But  still  you  did  say  that  sometime, 
If  I'd  pay  you  enough  (here's  enougher — 

That's  more  than  enough)  of  rhyme 
You'd  paint  me  a  picture.     I  pay  you 
Hereby  in  advance ;  and  I  pray  you 
Condone,  while  you  can,  your  crime, 
And  send  me  a  Mat. 

But  if  you  don't  do  so  I  warn  you, 

Dear  Mat, 

I'll  raise  such  a  clamor  and  cry 
On  Parnassus  the  Muses  will  scorn  you 

As  mocker  of  poets  and  fly 
With  bitter  complaints  to  Apollo: 
"  Her  spirit  is  proud,  her  heart  hollow, 
Her  beauty  " — they'll  hardly  deny, 
On  second  thought,  that! 


THE  WEATHER-WIGHT 

The  way  was  long,  the  hill  was  steep, 
My  footing  scarcely  I  could  keep. 

The  night,  enshrouded  me  in  gloom, 
I  heard  the  ocean's  distant  boom— 


62      THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  trampling  of  the  surges  vast 
Was  borne  upon  the  rising  blast. 


"  God  help  the  mariner,"  I  cried, 

"  Whose  ship  to-morrow  braves  the  tide !  " 

Then  from  the  impenetrable  dark 
A  solemn  voice  made  this  remark: 

"  For  this  locality — warm,  bright ; 
Barometer  unchanged;  breeze  light." 

"  Unseen  consoler-man,"  I  cried, 
"  Whoe'er  you  are,  where'er  abide, 

"  Thanks — but  my  care  is  somewhat  less 
For  Jack's,  than  for  my  own,  distress. 

"  Could  I  but  find  a  friendly  roof, 
Small  odds  what  weather  were  aloof. 

"  For  he  whose  comfort  is  secure 
Another's  pain  can  well  endure." 

"  The  latch-string's  out,"  the  voice  replied, 
"And  so's  the  door — jes'  step  inside." 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          63 

Then  through  the  darkness  I  discerned 
A  hovel  into  which  I  turned. 


Groping  about  beneath  its  thatch, 
I  struck  my  head  and  then  a  match. 

A  candle  by  that  gleam  betrayed 
Soon  lent  paraffinaceous  aid. 

A  pallid,  bald  and  thin  old  man 
I  saw,  who  this  complaint  began: 

"  Through  summer  suns  and  winter  snows 
I  sets  observin'  of  my  toes. 

"  I  rambles  with  increasin'  pain 
The  path  of  duty,  but  in  vain. 

"  Rewards  and  honors  pass  me  by- 
No  Congress  hears  this  raven  cry ! " 

Filled  with  astonishment,  I  spoke : 
"Thou  ancient  raven,  why  this  croak? 

"With  observation  of  your  toes 
What  Congress  has  to  do,  God  knows ! 


64      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"And  swallow  me  if  e'er  I  knew 
That  one  could  sit  and  ramble  too ! " 


To  answer  me  that  ancient  swain 
Took  up  his  parable  again : 

"  Through  winter  snows  and  summer  suns 
A  Weather  Bureau  here  I  runs. 

"  I  calls  the  turn,  and  can  declare 

Jes'  when  she'll  storm  and  when  she'll  fair. 

"  Three  times  a  day  I  sings  out  clear 
The  probs  to  all  which  wants  to  hear. 

"  Some  weather  stations,  run  with  light 
Frivolity,  is  seldom  right. 

"  A  scientist  from  times  remote, 
In  Scienceville  my  birth  is  wrote. 

"  And  when  I  h'ist  the  '  rainy '  sign 
Jes'  take  your  clo'es  in  off  the  line." 

"  Not  mine,  O  marvelous  old  man, 
The  methods  of  your  art  to  scan, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          65 

"Yet  here  no  instruments  there  be — 
Nor  'ometer  nor  'scope  I  see. 

"  Did  you  (if  questions  you  permit) 
At  the  asylum  leave  your  kit  ?  " 

That  strange  old  man  with  motion  rude 
Rose  to  surprising  altitude. 

"  Tools  (and  sarcazzems  too)  I  scorns — 
I  tells  the  weather  by  my  corns. 

"  No  doors  and  windows  here  you  see — 
The  wind  and  m'isture  enters  free. 

"  No  fires  nor  lights,  no  wool  nor  fur 
Here  falsifies  the  tempercher. 

"  My  corns  unleathered  I  expose 
To  feel  the  rain's  foretellin'  throes. 

"  No  stockin'  from  their  ears  keeps  out 
The  comin'  tempest's  warnin'  shout. 

"  Sech  delicacy  some  has  got 

They  know  next  summer's  to  be  hot. 


66      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  This  here  one  says  ( for  that  he's  best)  : 
'  Storm  center  passin'  to  the  west.' 

"  This  feller's  vitals  is  transfixed 
With  frost  for  Janawary  sixt'. 

"  One  chap  jes'  now  is  occypied 
In  fig'rin  on  next  Fridy's  tide. 

"  I've  shaved  this  cuss  so  thin  and  true 
He'll  spot  a  fog  in  South  Peru. 

"  Sech  are  my  tools,  which  ne'er  a  swell 
Observatory  can  excel. 

"  By  long  a-studyin'  their  throbs 
I  catches  onto  all  the  probs." 

Much  more,  no  doubt,  he  would  have  said, 
But  suddenly  he  turned  and  fled; 

For  in  mine  eye's  indignant  green 
Lay  storms  that  he  had  not  foreseen, 

Concerning  which,  as  Fear  appeals 
To  Speed,  his  toes  had  told  his  heels. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE          67 

T.  A.  H. 

Yes,  he  was  that,  or  that,  as  you  prefer — 

Did  so  and  so,  though,  faith,  it  wasn't  all; 

Lived  like  a  fool,  or  a  philosopher, 

And  had  whatever's  needful  to  a  fall. 

As  rough  inflections  on  a  planet  merge 

In  the  true  bend  of  the  gigantic  sphere, 

Nor  mar  the  perfect,  circle  of  its  verge, 

So  in  the  survey  of  his  worth  the  small 

Asperities  of  spirit  disappear, 

Lost  in  the  grander  curves  of  character. 

He  lately  was  hit  hard :  none  knew  but  I 

The  strength  and  terror  of  that  ghastly  stroke — 

Not  even  herself.     He  uttered  not  a  cry, 

But  set  his  teeth  and  made  a  revelry  ; 

Drank  like  a  devil — straining  sometimes  red 

The  goblet's  edge ;  diced  with  his  conscience ;  spread, 

Like  Sisyphus,  a  feast  for  Death  and  spoke 

His  welcome  in  a  tongue  so  long  forgot 

That  even  his  ancient  guest  remembered  not 

What  race  had  cursed  him  in  it.    Thus  my  friend, 

Still  conjugating  with  each  failing  sense 

The  verb  "  to  die  "  in  every  mood  and  tense, 

Pursued  his  awful  humor  to  the  end. 

When  like  a  stormy  dawn  the  crimson  broke 

From  his  white  lips  he  smiled  and  mutely  bled, 

And,  having  meanly  lived,  is  grandly  dead. 


68      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

MY  MONUMENT 

It  is  pleasant  to  think,  as  I'm  watching  my  ink 

A-drying  along  my  paper, 
That  a  monument  fine  will  surely  be  mine 

When  death  has  extinguished  my  taper. 

From  each  pitiless  scribe  of  the  critic  tribe 
Purged  clean  of  all  sentiments  narrow, 

A  pebble  will  mark  his  respect  for  the  stark 
Stiff  body  that's  under  the  barrow. 

Thus  stone  upon  stone  by  reviewers  thrown, 
Will  make  my  celebrity  deathless. 

O  I  wish  I  could  think,  as  I  gaze  at  my  ink, 
They'd  wait  till  my  carcass  is  breathless. 

MAD 

O  ye  who  push  and  fight 

To  hear  a  wanton  sing— 
Who  utter  the  delight 

That  has  the  bogus  ring, — 

O  men  mature  in  years, 

In  understanding  young, 
The  membranes  of  whose  ears 

She  tickles  with  her  tongue, — 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE          69 

O  wives  and  daughters  sweet, 

Who  call  it  love  of  art 
To  kiss  a  woman's  feet 

That  crush  a  woman's  heart, — 

O  prudent  dams  and  sires, 

Your  docile  young  who  bring 
To  see  how  man  admires 

A  sinner  if  she  sing — 

O  husbands  who  impart 

To  each  assenting  spouse 
The  lesson  that  shall  start 

The  buds  upon  your  brows, — 

All  whose  applauding  hands 

Assist  to  rear  the  flame 
That  throws  o'er  all  the  lands 

The  shadow  of  its  shame,— 

Go  drag  her  car! — the  mud 

Through  which  its  axle  rolls 
Is  partly  human  blood 

And  partly  human  souls. 

Mad,  mad! — your  senses  whirl 
Like  devils  dancing  free 


70      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Because  a  strolling  girl 
Can  hold  the  note  high  CL 


For  this  the  avenging  rod 
Of  Heaven  ye  dare  defy, 

And  tear  the  law  that  God 
Thundered  from  Sinai! 


FOR  COERCION  OF  COLOMBIA 

"  The  ships  steam  south 

From  the  harbor  mouth 
In  warlike,  grim  array! 

They  load  the  seas, 

And  on  every  breeze 

I  hear  the  brass  bands  play 
As  the  squadrons  steer  away. 

"From  each  foreign  shore 

They  are  coming  o'er 
The  oceans  big  and  small, 

With  cheering  crews 

And  churning  screws, 

And  guns  and  shot  and  all, 
And  Admirals  that  appal! 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE         71 

"  In  tropical  seas 
They  are  thick  as  bees. 

Oh,  ne'er  on  the  Trojan  strand 
Was  gathered  a  fleet 
So  hard  to  beat 

As  sails  to  that  southern  land. 

'Tis  terribly,  terribly  grand! 

"  O  sailorman  stout, 

What's  it  all  about? 

If  you  happen  to  know  tell  me. 

That  the  foe  has  no  chance 

His  troops  to  advance 
To  the  field  we  all  agree, 
And  the  devil  a  ship  has  he." 

He  shifted  his  quid, 

The  sailorman  did, 

To  the  starboard  side  of  his  face. 

His  trousers  he  hitched 

As  he  rolled  and  pitched, 

Maintaining  his  dubious  place 
With  a  certain  maritime  grace. 

H.e  looked  at  the  sky 
With  a  studious  eye, 

And  this  singular  yarn  he  spun : 


72      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  When  the  wind's  sou'west 

Every  man's  possessed 

Of  a  devil! — no  son-of-a-gun 
Can  tell  what's  fit  to  be  done." 

Perhaps  it  was  naught 

But  a  sailorman's  thought, 

But  I  said  to  myself:  "I'm  blest 

If  I  can't  mark  down 

A  man  of  renown 
Who  is  living  in  mental  unrest 
Where  the  wind  is  forever  sou'west." 


A  TEAGOING  ADMIRAL 

Once  the  Queen  of  Nether  China 
(So  benign  a  Messalina!) 
Said:  "  I'll  make  a  Naval  Hero 
Without  fear — O  brave  as  Nero! 
He  shall  dominate  the  ocean 
By  promotion,  that's  my  notion. 
All  my  other  sons  of  thunder 
Then  shall  plunder  vainly  under 
This  Incomparable  Person, 
Interspersin'  lively  cursin' 
With  their  futile  strife  to  shiver 
Every  river-pirate's  liver, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          73 

And  to  ascertain  the  measure 
Of  his  treasure  at  their  leisure. 
For  I'll  so  arrange  the  looting 
And  the  shooting  and  the  hooting, 
And  the  making  frightful  faces 
(These  grimaces  are  the  bases 
Of  our  tactics)  that  they  never, 
Howsoever  brave  and  clever, 
Shall  have  any  kind  of  inning 
In  the  skinning  now  beginning. 
And  I'll  see  that  in  the  story 
Of  the  gory  game  of  glory 
The  historian  shall  slight  'em 
Or  indict  'em — maybe  bite  'em. 
But  the  Hero  of  my  making, 
Whom  I'm  aching  to  be  waking 
Into  visible  existence, 
He  shall  distance  these  Philistines. 
Fame's  loud  trumpet — he  shall  hear  it. 
Blown  with  spirit  in  his  ear,  it 
Shall  extol  his  birth  and  breeding, 
His  exceeding  knack  at  leading 
In  a  sanguinary  sea  fight, 
Or  a  tea  fight,  or  a  flea  fight, 
Till  he  burst  with  admiration 
Of  his  station  in  the  nation! 
Then  while  all  the  people  mock  him, 
I'll  unfrock  him!    That  will  shock  him." 


74      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Thus  the  Queen  of  Nether  China, 
The  Regina  Mun-Kee-Shina, 
Made  to  Naval  Evolution 

A  Confucian  contribution. 
1898. 


THE  WOOER 

In  Ballybazoo  the  young  men  woo 
With  the  irresistible  hob-nail  shoe; 
But  in  Ghargharoo  lived  a  maiden  who 
Was  pleased  to  remark  that  it  wouldn't  do. 

From  Ghargharoo  to  Ballybazoo 

This  sternly  dissenting  maiden  (who, 

Etc.)  went  to  reside — a  lass 

With  a  cheek  of  steel  and  a  brow  of  brass. 

Then  all  the  young  men  of  Ballybazoo 
Took  turns  in  calling  early  to  woo 
(With  the  irresistible  hob-nail  shoe) 
The  beautiful  maiden  from  Ghargharoo. 

As  each  fond  lover  with  ardor  threw 
His  heel  in  her  upturned  face  there  flew 
A  rain  of  sparks  that  consumed  his  eyes, 
Affecting  his  mind  with  a  great  surprise. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          75 

When  all  the  young  men  had  renounced 

their  sight, 

The  metal-faced  maiden  she  sat  upright, 
Remarking:  "There's  nothing  here  to  do — 
A  dull,  dull  village  is  Ballybazoo." 

From  Ballybazoo  to  Ghargharoo 
The  cheek-whole  maiden  her  armament  drew, 
And  her  playmate  lovers  raised  a  hurroo 
That  saddened  the  sightless  in  Ballybazoo. 

A  stranger  there  was  who  cherished  a  heel 
Of  double-case-hardened,  cold-rolled  chrome 

steel! 

And  taking  thought  he  decided  to  woo, 
As  'twas  his  undoubted  right  to  do. 

To  display  his  charms  he  removed  his  shoe, 
And  boarding  her  visage,  began  to  woo. 
And  there  in  the  gloaming,  and  not  in  vain, 
The  old,  old  story  was  told  again. 

It  was  long  ago  in  the  sainted  past, 
But  traits  long  latent  crop  out  at  last; 
And  I  know  a  live  newspaper  fellow  who 
Has  ancestors  buried  in  Ghargharoo. 


76      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

SILHOUETTES    OF    ORIENTALS 

The  Sultan  is  a  Muscleman  ; 

He's  full  of  vim  and  whack, 
And  if  you  want  a  tussle  man 
His  back. 

Because  he's  a  Mahometan, 

They  think  him  mighty  slow. 
He's  quicker  than  a  comet — an 
Auto! 

He  doesn't  often  waste  a  fit, 

But  throws  it  where  'twill  tell. 
Blood  ?    Yes,  he  likes  the  taste  of  it 
Right  well. 

That  angel,  the  Bulgarian, 
Is  just  a  bird  of  pray. 

His  soul's  as  white  as  Parian, 
They  say. 

His  halo  fits  him  pleasantly 
And  he  has  two  great  wings. 

He  tunes  his  harp,  and  presently 
He  sings: 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          77 

"  My  shoulder  inoffensively 
Bears  this  dear  little  chip. 
Pass  on,  wayfarer,  pensively — 
Don't  flip." 

The  thoughtful  Moslem  pins  the  chip 

Fast  with  a  dagger.    Oh, 
That  angel-person's  sins  of  lip 
Are  low! 

The  Armenian  is  a  sassy  cur, 

Cantankerous  to  boot, 
Nor  draws  the  line  at  massacre 
And  loot. 

But  when  the  Kurd  in  revelry 
Slays,  burns,  imprisons,  fines, 
That  bad  gent  to  the  devil  he 
Consigns. 

My  muse  cannot  exemplify 

The  Macedonian — she 
Refuses  to  attempt  to  fly 
So  free. 

Old  Philip,  King  of  Macedon, 
Is  many  ages  dead; 


78     THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

We  have  this  little  gassy  don 
Instead. 


Is  he  a  Unitarian, 

A  Moslem,  Buddhist,  Jew — 
Or  just  a  gowned  barbarian 
With  trousers  on  his  Mary  Ann? 

Don't  know — do  you? 


LAND  OF  THE  PILGRIMS'  PRIDE 

I  dreamed,  and  in  my  dream  came  one  who  said : 
"  Because  thou  art  all  sullen ;  and  because 
Thou  sayest  thou  hast  not  for  thy  country,  love; 
Because  thou  dost  begrudge  the  foolish  blood 
That  in  the  far  heroic  days  thou  didst 
(Or  sayst  thou  didst)  pour  from  thy  riven  vein 
In  testimony  to  thy  patriot  zeal  ; 
Because  thou  seekest  ever  to  promote 
Distrust  of  the  benign  and  wholesome  rule 
Of  the  Majority — God's  Ministers; 
Because  thou  hearest  in  the  People's  voice 
Naught  but  the  mandate  of  an  idiot  will 
Clamoring  in  the  wilderness,  but  what 
Or  why  it  knoweth  not;  because  all  this 
And  much  beside  is  true,  I  come " 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          79 

"  Forbear,"   I  cried,  "  to  name  thine  errand — all 

Too  well  I  know  it  for  the  sword,  the  scales, 

The  shrouded  eyes  (albeit  methinks  I  catch 

A  twinkle  now  and  then  beneath  the  band) 

Speak  to  my  conscience  of  a  traitor's  doom! 

Strike,  then,  but  hear.    To  westward,  roaring  up 

From  far  beyond  the  earth's  vast  curvature, 

Come  sounds  of  discord  horrible — the  jar 

And  thunder  of  exploding  bombs; 

The  crackle  of  the  flames  that  eat  away 

The  means  of  life  of  those  who  kindle  them ; 

The  shouts  and  curses  of  the  robber  mob, 

Drunk  with  a  sense  of  numbers — like  the  wolves, 

Numerically  brave — on  ravin  bent 

And  murder!  Hear  the  moans  of  honest  men, 

With  shameful  by-name  vilified,  denied 

The  right  to  earn  their  bread,  and  with  a  blind, 

Mad  cruelty  the  devil  would  weep  to  see, 

Beaten  and  tortured,  even  by  the  hands 

Of  the  barbarian's  female  and  his  whelps! 

Meanwhile  the  coward  rulers  of  the  land 

Prate  of  '  the  People's  wrongs.'    The  coward  press 

(Thrifty  withal  to  purse  a  double  gain 

By  two-faced  flattery)  prates  like  a  fool 

Of  the  conservative  and  saving  strength 

Of  Anglo-Saxon  institutions,  or 

With  magic  words,  as  '  freedom,'  and  the  like, 

Would  conjure  order  from  inharmony. 


80      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  land  is  foul  with  crime,  and  none  declares 
Our  shame  and  downfall.    Even  the  women  rise 
And  seeing  the  rack  and  ruin  men  have  wrought, 
Strip  their  weak  bodies  with  a  silly  zeal 
Something  to  save  from  the  chaotic  wreck; 
And  in  the  reek  and  sweat  of  their  absurd 
And  awkward  efforts,  lose  even  what  remained — 
Their  own  morality  and  men's  respect. 
Therefore  I  say  to  you — " 

"  Nay   say   no   more," 

Cried  she  who  came  into  my  dream,  "  for  thou 
Dost  wander.     What,  pray,  has  all  this  to  do 
With   what    thou'rt   charged    with? — that    thou   dost 

not  love — 
Such  as  it  is — thy  country  ?  " 

Faith,  I  would, 

But  'tis  infested  by  my  countrymen !  " 
What  she  replied  I  know  not,  for  a  bomb, 
Spitting  and  sputtering  on  my  chamber  floor, 
Awoke  me  and  I  fled  into  the  night. 


A   SINGLE   TERMER 

When  Senator  Foraker  came  to  die 
His  features  lit  up  with  a  glow, 

And  he  said :    "  I  am  going  to  dwell  on  high 
And  the  Democrats  down  below. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE          81 

"  I  have  kept  the  faith,  I  have  fought  the  fight, 

To  the  Trusts  forever  true. 
With  Elkins  to  lead,  I  have  followed  the  light — 

Saint  Peter,  it's  up  to  you." 

Said  Peter :    "  We  strive  to  please  in  vain ; 

Many  a  soul  coming  here 
Escapes  to  earth  to  be  born  again 

And  resume  the  old  career." 

Here  he  opened  the  gate.    "  Although,  no  doubt, 

This  fellow's  a  son  of  sin, 
The  devil  himself  can't  keep  him  out, 

But  I'll  lock  the  fine  gentleman  in." 


A   PLAGUE   OF  ASSES 

Alas,  we've  fallen  upon  an  evil  time, 
Our  journals  are  all  in  a  rash  of  rhyme. 
Slang,  "  dialect,"  the  humor  of  the  slum, 
Done  into  stanzas  by  the  rule  of  thumb, 
The  peasant  word,  the  coarse,  colloquial  phrase, 
Fitting  the  pauper  thought  that  it  conveys, 
March  to  the  meter-master's  "  hep,  hep,  hep," 
With  every  second  soldier  out  of  step. 
What  sins  of  ours  deserve  this  heavy  curse? 
Who  taught  our  clowns  'tis  easy  to  write  verse 


82      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

If  neither  poetry  nor  wit  be  deemed 
A  needful  ornament,  nor  sense  esteemed 
A  twin  of  sound  ?    O  rustics  of  the  quill, 
Ill-made  by  Nature,  making  others  ill, 
(Landlubbers  on  the  sea  of  song  a-sail 
Uttering  your  fancies  o'er  the  leeward  rail) 
Forgive  the  wicked  wish  I  cannot  choose 
But  entertain — that,  luckless,  you  may  lose 
Each  one  a  thumb  of  the  tormenting  ten 
Whereon  you  reckon  syllables.     Ah,  then, 
Restored  to  what  it  was  before  you  learned 
That  grinning  through  horse-collars  ever  earned 
Plaudits  of  rustics  and  enough  of  dollars 
To  pay  the  weekly  rental  of  the  collars, 
With  something  over  for  the  stomach's  throes, 
Your  ailing  verse  will  turn  to  ailing  prose. 
Then  joyous  angels  will  look  down  and  say: 
"  Behold !  the  ninety-nine  that  went  astray 
Return  to  where,  from  fields  of  noxious  grass, 
Sweet  thistles  beckon  each  repenting  ass." 


IN  CUBA 

Our  Administration 
Had  made  a  new  nation — 
As  new  as  a  nation  could  be. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          83 

A  raven  was  flapping 

Above  it  and  snapping 

His  beak  with  a  manifest  glee. 
"  O  raven,  what  is  it  you  see 
That  causes  the  manifest  glee? 

"  You  can't  be  designing 
A  programme  of  dining 

On  anything  living  and  free. 
You're  famous  for  dinners 
That  plain-speaking  sinners 

Condemn  with  the  Terrible  D! 

(The  word  is  abhorrent  to  me 

That  begins  with  the  Terrible  D.) 

"  Come  down  from  your  airy 
Position  and  tarry 

Awhile  on  this  cocoanut  tree, 
And  tell  me  what  joying 
You  find  in  annoying 

A  nation  so  young  and  so  free — 

Not  dead  in  the  slightest  degree, 

But  lively  and  healthy  as  we." 


The  raven,  complying, 
Said,  solemnly  eying 

My  edible  parts  from  the  tree: 


84      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  It  isn't  to  nations 

I  look  for  my  rations 

To  any  extent  or  degree. 

They  don't  fill  the  hollow  in  me 

To  an  appreciable  degree. 

"  Yet  the  seasons  ensuing 
Will  see  something  doing 

To  heighten  my  manifest  glee. 
'Tis  soldiers  that  mostly 
Appeal  to  my  ghostly 

Unusual  appetite,  see? 

They're  easy  digesting  to  me 

With  my  singular  appetite,  see?" 

Then  I  hammered  my  forehead 

To  think  of  that  horrid 

Old  bird  with  his  appetite  free, 

A-sitting  there,  lacking 

Compassion  and  cracking 

His  beak,  on  a  cocoanut  tree, 
As  if  merely  saying  to  me: 
"Oh,  what  a  fine  cocoanut  tree." 

I  said  somewhat  later: 

"Our  Administrator 

Of  Freedom's  estate,  O  see! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          85 

His  Administration 
Presents  us  a  '  nation  ' 

That's  spelled  with  the  Terrible  D! 

And  '  nation  '  is  hateful  to  me 

When  led  by  the  Terrible  D." 


FOR  A  CERTAIN  CRITIC 

Let  lowly  theme  engage  my  humble  pen — 

Stupidities  of  critics,  not  of  men. 

Be  it  mine  once  more  the  maunderings  to  trace 

Of  the  expounders'  self-directed  race — 

Their  wire-drawn  fancies,  finically  fine, 

Of  diligent  vacuity  the  sign. 

Let  them  in  jargon  of  their  trade  rehearse 

The  moral  meaning  of  the  random  verse 

That  runs  spontaneous  from  the  poet's  pen 

To  be  half-blotted  by  ambitious  men 

Who  hope  with  his  their  meaner  names  to  link 

By  writing  o'er  it  in  another  ink 

The  thoughts  unreal  which  they  think  they  think, 

Until  the  mental  eye  in  vain  inspects 

The  hateful  palimpsest  to  find  the  text. 

The  lark,  ascending  heavenward,  loud  and  long 
Sings  to  the  dawning  day  his  wanton  song. 


86      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

The  moaning  dove,  attentive  to  the  sound, 
Its  hidden  meaning  hastens  to  expound: 
Explains  its  principles,  design — in  brief, 
Pronounces  it  a  parable  of  grief ! 
The  bee,  just  pausing  ere  he  daubs  his  thigh 
With  pollen  from  a  hollyhock  near  by, 
Declares  he  never  heard  in  terms  so  just 
The  labor  problem  thoughtfully  discussed! 
The  browsing  ass  looks  up  and  clears  his  whistle 
To  say:     "A  monologue  upon  the  thistle!" 
Meanwhile  the  lark,  descending,  folds  his  wing 
And  innocently  asks:     "What! — did  I  sing?" 


O  literary  parasites!  who  thrive 

Upon  the  fame  of  better  men,  derive 

Your  sustenance  by  suction,  like  a  leech, 

And,  for  you  preach  of  them,  think  masters  preach,- 

Who  find  it  half  is  profit,  half  delight, 

To  write  about  what  you  could  never  write, — 

Consider,  pray,  how  sharp  had  been  the  throes 

Of  famine  and  discomfiture  in  those 

You  write  of  if  they  had  been  critics,  too, 

And  doomed  to  write  of  nothing  but  of  you! 


Lo!  where  the  gaping  crowd  throngs  yonder  tent, 
To  see  the  lion  resolutely  bent! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          87 

The  prosing  showman  who  the  beast  displays 

Grows  rich  and  richer  daily  in  its  praise. 

But  how  if,  to  attract  the  curious  yeoman, 

The  lion  owned  the  show  and  showed  the  showman? 

ARTHUR  McEWEN 

Posterity  with  all  its  eyes 

Will  come  and  view  him  where  he  lies. 

Then,  turning  from  the  scene  away 

With  a  concerted  shrug,  will  say: 

"  H'm,  Scarbeeus  Sisyphus — 

What  interest  has  that  to  us? 

We  can't  admire  at  all,  at  all, 

A  tumble-bug  without  its  ball.*' 

And  then  a  sage  will  rise  and  say: 

"Good  friends,  you  err — turn  back,  I  pray: 

This  freak  that  you  unwisely  shun 

Is  bug  and  ball  rolled  into  one." 

CHARLES  AND  PETER 

Ere  Gabriel's  note  to  silence  died 
All  graves  of  men  were  gaping  wide. 

Then  Charles  A.  Dana,  of  The  Sun 
Rose  slowly  from  the  deepest  one. 


88      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  The  dead  in  Christ  rise  first,  'tis  writ," 
Quoth  he— "ick,  bick,  ban,  doe,— I'm  It!" 


(His  headstone,   footstone,  counted  slow, 

Were  "  ick  "  and  "  bick,"  he  "  ban  "  and  "  doe  ": 

Of  beating  Nick  the  subtle  art 
Was  part  of  his  immortal  part.) 

Then  straight  to  Heaven  he  took  his  flight, 
Arriving  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 

There  Warden  Peter,  in  the  throes 
Of  sleep,  lay  roaring  in  the  nose. 

"  Get  up,  you  sluggard !  "  Dana  cried— 
"  I've  an  engagement  there  inside." 

The  Saint  arose  and  scratched  his  head. 
"  I  recollect  your  face,"  he  said, 

"(And,  pardon  me,  'tis  rather  hard)r 
But "  Dana  handed  him  a  card. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  now  remember — bless 
My  soul,  how  dull  I  am! — yes,  yes, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          89 

"Walk  in.     But  I  must  tell  you  this: 
We've  nothing  better  here  than  bliss. 


"We've  rest  and  comfort,  though,  and  peace." 
"  H'm — puddles,"  Dana  said,  "  for  geese. 

"  Have  you  in  Heaven  no  Hell?  "    "  Why  no," 
Said  Peter,  "  nor,  in  truth,  below. 

'  'Tis  not  included  in  our  scheme — 
'Tis  but  a  preacher's  idle  dream." 

The  great  man  slowly  moved  away. 
"  I'll  call,"  he  said,  "  another  'day. 

"  On  earth  I  played  it,  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  Heaven  without  it  were  a  bore." 

"O,  stuff! — come  in.    You'll  make,"  said  Pete, 
"A  Hell  where'er  you  set  your  feet." 


CONTEMPLATION 

I  muse  upon  the  distant  town 
In  many  a  dreamy  mood. 

Above  my  head  the  sunbeams  crown 
The  graveyard's  giant  rood. 


90      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  lupin  blooms  among  the  tombs, 
The  quail  recalls  her  brood. 


Ah,  good  it  is  to  sit  and  trace 

The  shadow  of  the  cross; 
It  moves  so  still  from  place  to  place 

O'er  marble,  bronze  and  moss; 
With  graves  to  mark  upon  its  arc 

Our  time's  eternal  loss. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  watch  the  bee 

That  revels  in  the  roses, 
And  sense  the  fragrance  floating  free 

On  every  breeze  that  dozes 
Upon  the  mound,  where,  safe  and  sound, 

Mine  enemy  reposes. 


THE   GOLDEN   AGE 

Long  ago  the  world  was  finer — 
Why  it  failed  I  do  not  know: 

All  the  virtues  were  diviner; 

Robber,  miser,  and  maligner 
Had  not  been  created.    No, 
Truth  and  honor  flourished,  though, 
Long  ago. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          91 

Sages  in  procession  stalking 

Moved  majestic  to  and  fro, 
And  each  lowly  mortal  walking 
In  their  shadow  stilled  his  talking, 

Heeding  the  sonorous  flow 

Of  their  wisdom,  loud  or  low, 
Long  ago. 

Angel  Woman,  younger,  fairer 

Far  than  she  that  now  we  know, 
Gave  men  meeting  with  a  rarer 
Grace.    No  graybeard  cried,  "  Beware  her 
Tongue  and  temper!  "  She  was  slow 
To  wrath.    I  tell  you  that  was  so, 
Long  ago. 

Ah,  the  miracle  of  morning, 

Setting  all  the  world  aglow 
Like  a  smile  of  light  adorning 
God's  own  face,  held  no  forewarning 

Of  the  tempest  that  would  blow — 

Sign  and  prophecy  of  woe, 
Long  ago. 

Hope  from  every  hilltop  beckoned 

To  the  happy  throngs  below; 
And  they  confidently  reckoned 


92      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

On  a  hero  every  second. 

Best  of  all  that  goodly  show, 
I  was  but  a  laddie — O, 
So  long  ago! 


"  The  world  is  young,  perverse,  and  bad, 

The  virtues  all  are  wanting; 
The  gods  are  dead  and  men  are  mad 

And  wickedness  is  haunting 
The  human  heart,  an  honored  guest, 
As  robbers  of  the  night  infest 

A  wayside  inn  in  Camilhad. 

"  Hate  walks  the  earth  all  unafraid, 
And  neighbor  murders  neighbor; 

Greed  draws  on  Greed  the  battle-blade, 
And  Labor  strangles  Labor. 

The  widow  and  the  orphan  cry 

For  bread  while  benefactors  ply 

Unlashed  by  law,  their  dreadful  trade. 

"  King,   president,   and   patriot 

Serve  their  accurst  ambition; 
The  soldier  and  the  sans-culottes, 

The  priest  and  politician, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          93 

Are  blowing  with  impested  breath 
The  coals  of  war  that  sparkle  death. 
Peace,  righteousness,  and  love  are  not. 


"  But  I  shall  live  to  see  the  day 
Whose  golden  dawn  is  breaking! 

The  reign  of  war  no  more  shall  lay 
Our  dust,  nor  hearts  be  aching. 

Lo!  all  mankind  in  brotherhood 

Shall  study  only  to  be  good, 

And  fling  the  sword  of  self  away ! " 

So  chante'd  one  inspired  and  fain 

His  message  to  deliver 
To  men  who  toiled  upon  the  plain 

And  bled  along  the  river, 
And  all  the  world  was  foul  with  crime! 
This  prophet  lived  about  the  time 

That  Lamech's  wife  bare  Tubal-cain. 


AN    UNREFORMABLE    REFORMER 

I  know  not  how  they  come  about — 
These  alterations  in  our  spelling, 

But  sometimes  am  disposed  to  doubt 
The  efficacy  of  compelling 


94      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

(As  still  is  done  to  one  in  school 
By  threatening  to  whack  or  twist  him) 

Observance  of  an  iron  rule 
Despite  one's  better  private  system. 

For  when  the  sinner's  freed  from  fear 

He  spells,  as  formerly,  by  ear. 

That's  what  I  have  observed,  but  much 

By  that,  I  fear,  is  not  decided 
Against  the  iron  hand  (whose  touch 

May  none  experience,  as  I  did) 
For  under  this  White  House  regime 

Condemning  every  silent  letter, 
This  is  the  motto,  it  would  seem: 

"  Who  spells  by  ear  spells  all  the  better." 
If  that  is  what  these  pranks  entail, 
Executive  Compulsion,  hail! 

God  grant  I  know  not  envy  nor, 

When  chatting  over  cup  and  saucer, 
Betray  my  secret  hunger  for 

The  high  renown  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 
Yet  now  at  last  I  seem  to  see 

My  way  to  equal  approbation : 
When  I'm  as  hard  to  read  as  he 

Phonetes  of  that  far  generation 
Will  study  me  and  say :     "  How  grand ! — 
So  difficult  to  understand !  " 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          95 

The  President,  the  President! — 

How  enterprising  in  revision 
Of  Nature's  laws! — how  diligent 

In  cutting  out  a  court  decision! — 
How  sedulous  the  stars  to  woo 

And  keep  the  seasons  rightly  going! 
Ahr  seldom  we  remember  who 

Establishes  the  time  of  sowing 
And  reaping,  makes  the  harvest  good, 
And  a  great  man  of  Leonard  Wood. 

This  world  is  variously  bad, 

And  mad  as  hares  in  January 
('Tis  later  that  the  hares  are  mad, 

But  similes  and  seasons  vary) 
And  Presidents  have  much  to  do 

To  keep  the  March  of  Mind  a-walking, 
To  level  up  the  birth  rate,  to 

Pain  William  Chandler — all  by  talking. 
O  Father  Adam,  how  you  must 
Rejoice  that  both  your  ears  are  dust! 


THE  WORD-WAY  IN  PANAMA 

I  dreamed  I  sailed  along  a  tropic  shore, 
The  Line  behind  me  and  the  Star  before. 
A  savage  coast,  it  was,  of  wood  and  fen, 
And  monkeys  gabbled  there,  instead  of  men. 


96      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Once,  as  the  blessed  sun  his  head  upraised, 
On  what  a  wondrous  spectacle  he  gazed! 

A  mile  away  upon  the  starboard  beam 
Fell  into  ocean  a  deep  sluggish  stream, 
Yet  not  a  drop  of  water  passed  its  mouth — 
Thy  way,  Kentucky,  glory  of  the  South ! 
Words,  words  alone  it  "  uttered  to  the  day," 
As  if  from  Kansas  it  had  gone  astray. 
Yea,  disemboguing  grandly  on  the  beach, 
Flowed  thickly,  viscidly,  the  parts  of  speech! 
Some,  by  their  dead,  incalculable  weight 
Held  to  the  bottom  of  that  turbid  strait, 
Slid  seaward  fathoms  deep,  nor  saw  the  light 
That  shone  above  their  everlasting  night! 
Some,  such  their  levity,  remained  atop, 
Frolicked  and  flashed — did  everything  but  stop. 
Others,  too  grave  to  float,  too  light  to  sink, 
Forever  rolled  and  tumbled  on  the  brink — 
Spread  north  and  south  along  the  cumbered  strand, 
And  babbled  ever  between  sea  and  land. 

Ah!  'twas  a  famous  spectacle  indeed, 
This  wordy  welter! — verbs  that  disagreed 
With  nominatives;  prepositions  all 
Too  weak  to  hold  the  objective  case  in  thrall; 
Adverbs  and  adjectives  disparted  quite 
From  parent-words  and  in  a  woful  plight 


97 


Of  orphanage;  conjunctions,  interjections 
With  truly  anarchistic  predilections; 
And  pronouns  which — a  gutter-blooded  swarm! — 
Denied  their  antecedents  in  their  form ! 

Greatly  I  marveled  whence  this  language  came— 
No  "  well  of  English  "  like  it  could  I  name, 
Nor  think  how  such  a  stream,  however  free 
Its  flow,  could  wear  a  channel  to  the  sea! 

As  Hudson  bears  his  never-failing  fleet 
Of  dead  dogs,  verdant,  poddy  and  unsweet, 
To  pile  themselves  upon  the  Jersey  shore, 
Or  in  Sargasso's  Sea  rest  evermore, 
So  poured  this  torrent  through  its  delta's  breaches, 
And  all  these  parts  of  speech  were  parts  of  speeches !- 
All  gushing  from  that  word-way  like  a  flood 
Of  swearing  tomcats  militant  in  mud! 
They  leapt,  they  smelled,  they  clamored,  like  a  line 
Of  pagans  faring  to  a  sacred  shrine! 
"  No  more  my  heart  the  dismal  din  sustained  " 
(See  Homer — Pope's  translation)    for  it  strained 
My  senses — this  uncouth,  infragrant,  hoarse 
"  Fine  flow  of  language  "  from  its  Northern  source. 
Cold  drops  of  terror  from  my  body  broke! — 
I  'bouted  ship,  and  from  my  dream  awoke. 
1902. 


98      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


THE  JACK  OF   CLUBS 

Jerome,  you  are  a  mighty  famous  man — 

District  Attorney,  I  believe  they  call  you. 
Some  shout  your  praise  as  loudly  as  they  can, 

And  some,  apparently,  just  live  to  maul  you. 

But  whether  good  or  ill  repute  befall  you, 
Your  critics  can't  deny  that,  as  a  rule, 

You  take  it  standing — though  the  wits  among 
Them  say  you  stand,  as  does  the  singing  mule, 

The  better  to  perform  your  feats  of  lung. 
And,  truly  from  the  dawning  to  the  gloaming, 
When  in  good  voice,  you're  usually  Jeroming. 


O,  well,  we  must  have  music — 'tis  a  need, 
Like  Ibsen,  Shaw  or  the  "  Edenic  diet " ; 

Though  sometimes  silence  is  desired — indeed, 

There's  much  that  may  be  said  in  praise  of  quiet, 
And  possibly  you  might  do  worse  than  try  it. 

Twere  better,  anyhow,  than  fool  advice 
To  the  police  to  club  their  fellow  men, 

Too  sore  already.     Sir,  it  is  not  nice 

To  free  your  snouty  virtues  from  the  pen — 

Unless,  as  once  in  Gadara,  they'll  scamper 

Down  a  steep  place  to  where  'tis  greatly  damper. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          99 

Jerome,  the  best  of  us  are  those  who  care 

To  hide  from  view  the  monsters  that  inhabit 
Our  hearts,  and  when  too  closely  questioned  swear 

We've  nothing  fiercer  than  a  sheep  or  rabbit. 

Seeing  an  opportunity,  you  grab  it 
And  lifting  up  the  curtain,  show  the  whole 

Menagerie  of  thoughts  and  feelings  which 
Infest  the  secret  places  of  your  soul 

Like  newts  and  water-puppies  in  a  ditch. 
O,  great  reformer!  hide  from  observation 
The  unpleasing  spectacle  of  Reformation. 

1905. 


A  NAVAL  METHOD 

Captain  Purvis,  for  aught  we  know, 

Never  slew  a  Filipino; 

Played  exceeding  well  at  polo, 

But  invited  not  the  bolo. 

Though  his  form  was  big  and  burly, 

And  his  fist  was  hard  and  knurly, 

And  his  cocktail  hour  came  early, 

Yet  he  was  devoid  of  thirst 

For  the  blood  of  the  accurst, 

Inconsiderate  Tagallo 

(Seas  of  gore,  however  shallow, 


100    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

He  regarded  very  lightly, 
As  inutile  and  unsightly) ; 
So  he  did  not  much  frequent 
That  insurrectionary  gent. 


Captain  Purvis  went  a-scouting 

(Truth  to  tell,  he  took  an  outing) — 

Found  a  Filipino  sleeping, 

Bound  and  took  him  into  keeping. 

Calling  Sergeant-Major  Gump, 

They  conveyed  him  to  a  pump, 

Laid  him  on  his  back  beneath, 

With  his  tongue  between  his  teeth. 

Said  the  captain :     "  We'll  not  thump  him, 

But  he  is  a  spy — we'll  pump  him. 

That's  our  duty;  information, 

Secrets  useful  to  the  nation, 

We'll  wring  from  him.     Tell  me,  sir, 

Tell  me  truly,  why  a  cur 

Wags  its  tail — and,  furthermore, 

When  a  door  is  not  a  door." 


But  that  person  obstinacious 
Answered,  with  a  look  ungracious, 
That  he'd  see  them  ('he  was  witty) 
Both  in  Helfurst — that's  a  city 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        101 

In  Silesia,  I  suppose, 

Where  no  proper  person  goes. 

So  they  pumped  him  full  of  water — 

Son  of  Temperance,  or  Daughter, 

Ne'er  was  half  so  full  as  that, 

Nor  any  poison-fevered  rat 

Trying  with  a  fervor  frantic 

To  abolish  the  Atlantic. 

Yes,  that  Filipino  bloated 

Till  his  snowy  liver  floated 

Like  a  lily  on  a  pond. 

And  his  soul  to  the  Beyond 

Drifted  on  the  strong,  full  tide, 

"  By  word  of  mouth,"  from  his  inside. 


Captain  Purvis  being  duly 
Tried,  the  President  said :     "  Truly, 
He's  a  water-warrior;  he 
Would  more  fitly  serve  at  sea." 
So  the  Navy  broke  his  fall — 
Rearest- Admiral  of  all! 
By  his  ironclad  desk  he's  sitting, 
Sometimes  writing,  sometimes  knitting, 
For  he's  Chief   (and  that's  enough) 
Of  the  Bureau  of  Plum  Duff. 
1902. 


George  Dewey,  dear,  I  did  not  think  that  you — 
So  very  married  and  so  happy,  too — 
Would  go  philandering  with  another  girl 
And  give  your  gay  mustache  a  fetching  curl 
And  set  your  cap — I  should  say  your  cocked  hat — 
At  Miss  Columbia  the  like  o'  that. 
Pray  what  can  you  expect  to  get  by  throwing 
Sheep's  eyes  at  one  so  very,  very  knowing? 

See  how  she  served  McKinley!     All  his  life 
He  wooed  her  for  his  morganatic  wife, 
Swore  that  he  loved  her  better  than  his  soul 
(I'm  half  inclined  to  think,  upon  the  whole, 
She  better  did  deserve  his  love)  then  vowed 
He'd  marry  her  alive,  or  even  aloud! 
What  did  she?     Ere  his  breath  he  could  recover 
She  heartlessly  accepted  that  poor  lover! 

There's  William  Bryan  of  the  silver  tongue, 
Old  in  ambition,  in  discretion  young — 
He  courts  her  with  the  song,  the  dance,  the  lute, 
But  knows  how  suitors  feel  who  do  not  suit. 
And  Teddy  Roosevelt,  plucking  from  its  sheath 
The  weapon  that  he  wears  behind  his  teeth, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        103 

Endeavors  in  his  simple,  soldier  fashion, 

But  all  in  vain,  to  touch  her  heart  by  slashin'. 


Beware,  my  web-foot  friend,  beware  her  wiles: 
Fly  from  her  sighs  and  disregard  her  smiles. 
She's  no  fool  mermaid  with  a  comb  and  glass, 
But  Satan's  daughter  with  a  breast  of  brass. 
Put  out  your  prow  to  sea  again — but  hold ! 
If  Bryan  and  McKinley,  all  too  bold, 
Show  up  along  the  beach  with  little  Teddy — 
Well,  Dewey,  you  may  fire  when  you  are  ready. 
April,  1900. 


A  LEARNER 

I  do  not  think  you  rightly  understand: 
My  foolish  tongue  imperfectly  has  caught 
The  trick  of  loving  words,  nor,  as  it  ought, 

Serves  the  sweet  purpose  of  the  heart's  command. 

Dear,  I'm  untraveled  in  the  golden  land 
Of  love,  and  in  its  language  all  untaught, 
Like  some  poor  mariner  by  tempest  brought 

'Mongst  alien  races  to  a  foreign  strand. 

So,  pretty  native,  bear  with  me  until 
My  simple  wants  I  rightly  can  avow — 


104    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

My  will  to  serve  you  with  my  men  and  ships. 
For  lo!  already  I've  some  little  skill 
In  the  strange  tongue.     Ask  me  to  kiss  you  now — 

I'll  read  the  riddle  ere  it  leaves  your  lips! 


TO   BRIDGET 

Have  ye  heard  what  the  news  is,  me  darlint? 

The  Fenians  have  threatened  the  Pope! 
But,  begorra,  I  think  there's  a  snarl  in't 

That's  twisted  it  up  like  a  rope, 

From  a  kink  in  the  telescope. 
For  the  news,  ye  must  know,  Biddy,  reaches 

This  counthry  by  means  of  a  wire; 
And  sometimes  the  heat  o'  the  speeches 

Just  warrups  it  up  like  a  fire. 
Faith!  who  but  the  Divil  would  bother 
The  likes  o'  the  Howly  Father? 

And  the  Divil  is  in  it,  I'm  fearin', 

When  a  gintleman's  called  on  to  chuse 
Betwixt  Howly  Church  and  Ould  Erin — 

The  shamrock  and  harp  to  refuse, 

Or  be  like  the  murtherin'  Jews. 
Och!  Biddy,  me  mind  it  is  troublin' 

To  know  where  me  body's  at  home — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        105 

With  half  o'  me  sowl  there  in  Dublin 

And  t'other  half  over  in  Rome! 
Bedad,  there's  a  shplit  in  the  party 
Of  the  name  of  O'Malley  McCarty! 


AFTER  TENNYSON 

You  ask  me  why,  though  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Where  honor's  dead,  and  law  is  hissed, 

And  all  men  pillage  as  they  please. 

It  is  the  land  where  freemen  kill 
In  warm  debate  their  party  foes; 
The  land  where  judges  come  to  blows 

And  speak  the  things  that  make  us  ill; 

A  land  of  base  expedient; 

A  land  where  gold  can  justice  drown ; 

Where  Freedom's  chains  are  handed  down 
From  President  to  President; 

Where  factions  wrangle  for  the  bread 
Of  honest  men;  where,  fearing  naught, 


106    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Accurst  monopolies  have  caught 
The  people  in  the  nets  they  spread ; 


Where  branded  convicts  execute 
The  laws  that  in  a  better  time 
They  broke,  and  every  kind  of  crime 

Stalks  unashamed  and  resolute. 

Should  honor  e'er  possess  the  land, 
And  patriots  control  the  State, 
And  Justice  rise,  divine  with  hate, 

To  choke  the  politician  band, 

O  waft  me  from  the  harbor  forth, 
Wild  winds.     I'll  see  Alaska's  sky. 
Here  'twill  have  grown  too  warm,  and  I 

Will  run  for  office  in  the  North. 


TO    MY    BIRD 

If  I  were  screaming  in  a  cage, 
Parrot  mine,  parrot  mine, 

And  you  were  rhyming  on  this  page, 
Parrot  mine, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        107 

I'd  try  to  shriek  a  fresher  bit 
Of  wisdom  to  excite  your  wit, 
Parrot  mine. 


All  you  have  said  is  nothing  new, 

Parrot  mine,  parrot  mine, 
By  Jove,  I  taught  it  all  to  you, 

Parrot  mine. 

While  you  nor  can,  nor  could,  nor  might 
Have  thought  what  I  could  care  to  write, 

Parrot  mine. 

Your  life  in  order  to  maintain, 

Parrot  mine,  parrot  mine, 
You  daily  dine  upon  my  brain, 

Parrot  mine. 

My  mind,  a  torn  and  mangled  wreck, 
Is  disappearing  down  your  neck, 

Parrot  mine. 

Well,  be  it  so:  present  your  bill, 

Parrot  mine,  parrot  mine, 
And  on  my  virtues  feast  your  fill, 

Parrot  mine. 

My  vices,  though,  will  disagree 
With  you,  my  pet.     They  do  with  me, 

Parrot  mine. 


108    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


BUSINESS 

Two  villains  of  the  highest  rank 
Set  out  one  night  to  rob  a  bank. 
They  found  the  building,  looked  it  o'er, 
Each  window  noted,  tried  each  door, 
Scanned  carefully  the  lidded  hole 
For  minstrels  to  cascade  the  coal — 
In  short,  examined  five-and-twenty 
Short  cuts  from  poverty  to  plenty. 
But  all  were  sealed,  they  saw  full  soon, 
Against  the  minions  of  the  moon. 
"Enough,"  said  one:  "I'm  satisfied." 
The  other,  smiling  fair  and  wide, 
Said:  "I'm  as  highly  pleased  as  you: 
No  burglar  ever  can  get  through. 
Fate  surely  prospers  our  design — 
The  booty  all  is  yours  and  mine." 
So,  full  of  hope,  the  following  day 
To  the  exchange  they  took  their  way 
And  bought,  with  manner  free  and  frank, 
Some  stock  of  that  devoted  bank; 
And  they  became,  inside  the  year, 
One  President  and  one  Cashier. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        109 

Their  crime  I  can  no  further  trace — 
The  means  of  safety  to  embrace, 
I  overdrew  and  left  the  place. 


A  POSSIBILITY 

If  the  wicked  gods  were  willing 
(Pray  it  never  may  be  true!) 
That  a  universal  chilling 

Should  ensue 
Of  the  sentiment  of  loving, — 

If  they  made  a  great  undoing 
Of  the  plan  of  turtle-doving, 
Then  farewell  all  poet-lore, 

Evermore. 
If  there  were  no  more  of  billing 

There  would  be  no  more  of  cooing 
And  we  all  should  be  but  owls — 

Lonely  fowls 
Blinking  wonderfully  wise, 

With  our  great  round  eyes — 
Sitting  singly  in  the  gloaming  and  no  longer  two 

and  two, 

As  unwilling  to  be  wedded  as  unpracticed  how 
to  woo; 


110    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

With  regard  to  being  mated, 
Asking  still  with  aggravated 
Ungrammatical  acerbity:     "To  who?     To  who?" 


TO  A  CENSOR 

The  delay  granted  by  the  weakness  and   good  nature  of  our 
judges  is  responsible  for  half  the  murders. — Dally  Newspaper. 

Delay  responsible?    Why,  then,  my  friend, 

Impeach  Delay  and  you  will  make  an  end. 

Thrust  vile  Delay  in  jail  and  let  it  rot 

For  doing  all  the  things  that  it  should  not. 

Put  not  good-natured  judges  under  bond, 

But  make  Delay  in  damages  respond. 

Minos,  /Eacus,  Rhadamanthus,  rolled 

Into  one  pitiless,  unsmiling  scold — 

Unsparing  censor,  be  your  thongs  uncurled 

To  "  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  world." 

The  rascals?     Nay,  Rascality's  the  thing 

Above  whose  back  your  knotted  scourges  sing. 

Your  satire,  truly,  like  a  razor  keen, 

"  Wounds  with  a  touch  that's  neither  felt  nor  seen ;  " 

For  naught  that  you  assail  with  falchion  free 

Has  either  nerves  to  feel  or  eyes  to  see. 

Against  abstractions  evermore  you  charge: 

You  hack  no  helmet  and  you  need  no  targe. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        111 

That  wickedness  is  wrong  and  sin  a  vice, 

That  wrong's  not  right,  nor  foulness  ever  nice, 

Fearless  affirm.     All  consequences  dare: 

Smite  the  offense  and  the  offender  spare. 

When  Ananias  and  Sapphira  lied 

Falsehood,  had  you  been  there,  had  surely  died. 

When  money-changers  in  the  Temple  sat, 

At  money-changing  you'd  have  whirled  the  "  cat " 

(That  John-the-Baptist  of  the  modern  pen) 

And  all  those  brokers  would  have  cried  amen! 


Good  friend,  if  any  judge  deserve  your  blame 
Have  you  no  courage,  or  has  he  no  name? 
Upon  his  method  will  you  wreak  your  wrath, 
Himself  all  unmolested  in  his  path? 
Fall  to!  fall  to! — your  club  no  longer  draw 
To  beat  the  air  or  flail  a  man  of  straw. 
Scorn  to  do  justice  like  the  Saxon  thrall 
Who  cuffed  the  offender's  shadow  on  a  wall. 
Let  rascals  in  the  flesh  attest  your  zeal — 
Knocked  on  the  mazzard  or  tripped  up  at  heel! 

We  know  that  judges  are  corrupt.    We  know 
That  crimes  are  lively  and  that  laws  are  slow. 
We  know  that  lawyers  lie  and  doctors  slay; 
That  priests  and  preachers  are  but  birds  of  pray; 


112    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

That  merchants  cheat  and  journalists  for  gold 
Flatter  the  vicious  while  at  vice  they  scold. 
'Tis  all  familiar  as  the  simple  lore 
That  two  policemen  and  two  thieves  make  four. 


But  since,  while  some  are  wicked  some  are  good, 
(As  trees  may  differ  though  they  all  are  wood) 
Names  here  and  there,  to  show  whose  head  is  hit, 
The  bad  would  sentence  and  the  good  acquit. 
In  sparing  everybody  none  you  spare: 
Rebukes  most  personal  are  least  unfair. 
To  fire  at  random  if  you  still  prefer. 
And  swear  at  Dog  but  never  kick  a  cur, 
Permit  me  yet  one  ultimate  appeal 
To  something  that  you  understand  and  feel: 
Let  thrift  and  vanity  your  heart  persuade — 
You  might  be  read  if  you  would  learn  your  trade. 


Good  brother  censors  (you  have  doubtless  guessed 
Not  one  of  you  but  all  are  here  addressed) 
Remember  this:  the  shaft  that  seeks  a  heart 
Draws  all  eyes  after  it;  an  idle  dart 
Shot  at  some  shadow  flutters  o'er  the  green, 
Its  flight  unheeded  and  its  fall  unseen. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        113 


"THE   WHOLE   WORLD   KIN" 

"  Liars  for  witnesses ;  for  lawyers  Brutes 
Willing  to  lose  their  souls  to  win  their  suits; 
Cowards  for  jurors,  and  for  judge  a  clown 
Who  ne'er  took  up  the  law,  yet  lays  it  down; 
Justice  denied,  authority  abused, 
And  the  one  blameless  person  the  accused — 
Thy  courts,  my  country,  all  these  dreadful  years, 
Move  fools  to  laughter  and  the  wise  to  tears." 

So  moaned  an  alien  from  beyond  the  foam. 
Come  here,  my  lad,  I  think  you'll  feel  at  home. 


A  FUTURE  CONVERSATION 

If  the  coal  strike  is  not  settled  satisfactorily  I  shall  lead 
the  wives  of  the  miners  in  a  march  on  Washington. — Mother 
Jones. 

"  What  is  this  I  see,  what  is  this  I  see 
In  this  year  of  our  Lord  3003? 
What  ruins  are  spread  in  confusion  wide 
Over  hill  and  plain  by  Potomac's  side?" 

"These,  traveler,  these  are  the  leveled  stones 
Attesting  the  prowess  of  Mother  Jones." 


114    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  O  plowman,  I  never  in  history  grew 
To  the  high  attainments  of  Smith  Carew, 
Whose  noble  book,  '  The  Decline  and  Fall 
Of  America,'  holds  the  respect  of  all. 
Of  Mother  Jones  I  often  have  heard, 
But  thought — pray  pardon  if  I  have  erred — 
That  the  ancient  lady  became  renowned 
By  embroidering  cats  on  a  velvet  ground." 

"Your  error  is  wide,  remote,  extreme: 

Not  the  needle's  shine,  but  the  sabre's,  gleam 

Delighted  of  old  her  heroic  soul 

And  made  her  unloved  of  the  Lords  of  Coal. 

In  that  distant  day  when  the  miner  '  rose,' 

And  to  spite  his  countenance  severed  his  nose, 

And  owners  permitted  each  mine  of  the  trust 

To  fill  up  with  water  to  lay  his  dust, 

She  marshaled  the  women,  with  sabre  and  gun, 

And  marched  with  banners  on  Washington." 

"  I  see,  I  see  in  these  ruins  gray 
Through  which  you  are  urging  your  plowshare  gay 
The  work  of  their  hands,  slender  and  white, 
That  plied  the  pick  and  the  crowbar  bright." 

"  The  cannon,  my  friend, — but  no  harm  was  done, 
For  before  the  city  was  overrun 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        115 

By  the  warrior-dames  of  that  rebel  rout 

The  politicians  had  cleaned  it  out, 

And  the  stones  that  about  the  plain  they  spread 

Were  served  to  the  poor  when  they  asked  for  bread." 


"  O  affable  plowman,  I'd  fain  admire 
Your  tale,  but,  alas,  I'm  myself  a  liar! 
Besides,  I've  a  better  one,  which,  mayhap, 
You'd  like  to  be  hearing." 

"Giddap,  giddap!" 


THE  HESITATING  VETERAN 

When  I  was  young  and  full  of  faith 

And  other  fads  that  youngsters  cherish 
A  cry  rose  as  of  one  that  saith 

With  emphasis :  "  Help  or  I  perish !  " 
'Twas  heard  in  all  the  land,  and  men 

The  sound  were  each  to  each  repeating. 
It  made  my  heart  beat  faster  then 

Than  any  heart  can  now  be  beating. 

For  the  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  gray- 
Grown  prudent  and,  I  think,  more  witty. 

She's  cut  her  wisdom  teeth,  they  say, 
And  doesn't  now  go  in  for  Pity. 


116    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Besides,  the  melancholy  cry 

Was  that  of  one,  'tis  now  conceded, 

Whose  plight  no  one  beneath  the  sky 
Felt  half  so  poignantly  as  he  did. 

Moreover,  he  was  black.     And  yet 

That  sentimental  generation 
With  an  austere  compassion  set 

Its  face  and  faith  to  the  occasion. 
Then  there  were  hate  and  strife  to  spare, 

And  various  hard  knocks  a-plenty; 
And  I  ('twas  more  than  my  true  share, 

I  must  confess)  took  five-and-twenty. 

That  all  is  over  now — the  reign 

Of  love  and  trade  stills  all  dissensions, 
And  the  clear  heavens  arch  again 

Above  a  land  of  peace  and  pensions. 
The  black  chap — at  the  last  we  gave 

Him  everything  that  he  had  cried  for, 
Though  many  white  chaps  in  the  grave 

'Twould  puzzle  to  say  what  they  died  for. 

I  hope  he's  better  off — I  trust 

That    his   society    and    his   master's 
Are  worth  the  price  we  paid,  and  must 
Continue  paying,  in  disasters; 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        117 

But  sometimes  doubts  press  thronging  round 
('Tis  mostly  when  my  hurts  are  aching) 

If  war  for  Union  was  a  sound    ' 
And  profitable  undertaking. 

'Tis  said  they  mean  to  take  away 

The  Negro's  vote  for  he's  unlettered. 
'Tis  true  he  sits  in  darkness  day 

And  night,  as  formerly,  when  fettered; 
But  pray  observe — howe'er  he  vote 

To  whatsoever  party  turning, 
He'll  be  with  gentlemen  of  note 

And  wealth  and  consequence  and  learning. 

With  saints  and  sages  on  each  side, 

How  could  a  fool  through  lack  of  knowledge, 
Vote  wrong?     If  learning  is  no  guide 

Why  ought  one  to  have  been  in  college? 

0  Son  of  Day,  O  Son  of  Night! 
What  are  your  preferences  made  of? 

1  know  not  which  of  you  is  right, 
Nor  which  to  be  the  more  afraid  of. 

The  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  bad, 
And  creaks  and  grinds  upon  its  axis; 

And  man's  an  ape  and  the  gods  are  mad ! — 
There's  nothing  sure,  not  even  our  taxes. 


118    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

No  mortal  man  can  Truth  restore, 
Or  say  where  she  is  to  be  sought  for. 

I  know  what  uniform  I  wore — 

O,  that  I  knew  which  side  I  fought  for! 


A  YEAR'S  "  CASUALTIES  " 

Slain  as  they  lay  by  the  secret,  slow, 

Pitiless  hand  of  an  unseen  foe, 

Two  score  thousand  old  soldiers  have  crossed 

The  river  to  join  the  loved  and  lost. 

In  the  space  of  a  year  their  spirits  fled, 

Silent  and  white,  to  the  camp  of  the  dead. 

One  after  one  they  fall  asleep 

And  the  pension  agents  awake  to  weep, 

And  orphaned  statesmen  are  loud  in  their  wail 

As  the  souls  flit  by  on  the  evening  gale. 

O  Father  of  Battles,  pray  give  us  release 

From  the  horrors  of  peace,  the  horrors  of  peace! 

TO-DAY 

I  saw  a  man  who  knelt  in  prayer, 

And  heard  him  say: 
"  I'll  lay  my  inmost  spirit  bare 
To-day. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        119 

"  Lord,  for  to-morrow  and  its  need 

I  do  not  pray; 

Let  me  upon  my  neighbor  feed' 
To-day. 

"  Let  me  my  duty  duly  shirk 

And  run  away 

From  any  form  or  phase  of  work 
To-day. 

"From  Thy  commands  exempted  still, 

Let  me  obey 

The  promptings  of  my  private  will 
To-day. 

"  Let  me  no  word  profane,  no  lie, 

Unthinking,  say 
If  any  one  is  standing  by 
To-day. 

"  My  secret  sins  and  vices  grave 

Let  none  betray; 

The  scoffer's  jeers  I  do  not  crave 
To-day. 

"  And  if  to-day  my  fortune  all 
Should  ebb  away 


120    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Help  me  on  other  men's  to  fall 
To-day. 


"  So,  for  to-morrow  and  its  mite 

I  do  not  pray; 

Just  give  me  everything  in  sight 
To-day." 

I  cried :  "  Amen !  "    He  rose  and  ran 

Like  oil  away. 

I  said:     "I've  seen  an  honest  man 
To-day." 


AN  ALIBI 

A  famous  journalist  who  long 
Had  told  the  great  unheaded  throng 
Whate'er  they  thought,  by  day  or  night, 
Was  true  as  Holy  Writ,  and  right, 
Was  caught  in — well,  on  second  thought, 
It  is  enough  that  he  was  caught 
And,  thrown  into  a  jail,  became 
The  fuel  of  a  public  flame. 
"  Fox  populi  vox  Dei"  said 
The  jailer.     Inxling  bent  his  head 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        121 

Without  remark:  that  motto  good 

In  bold-faced  type  had  always  stpod 

Above  the  columns  where  his  pen 

Had  rioted  in  praise  of  men 

And  all  they  said — provided  he 

Was  sure  they  mostly  did  agree. 

Meanwhile  a  sharp  and  bitter  strife 

To  take,  or  save,  the  culprit's  life 

Or  liberty  (which,  I  suppose, 

Was  much  the  same  to  him)  arose 

Outside.     The  journal  that  his  pen 

Adorned  denounced  his  crime — but  then 

Its  editor  in  secret  tried 

To  have  the  indictment  set  aside. 

The  opposition  papers  swore 

His  father  was  a  rogue  before, 

And  all  his  wife's  relations  were 

Like  him  and  similar  to  her. 

They  begged  their  readers  to  subscribe 

A  dollar  each  to  make  a  bribe 

That  any  Judge  would  feel  was  large 

Enough  to  prove  the  gravest  charge — 

Unless,  it  might  be,  the  Defense 

Put  up  superior  evidence. 

The  law's  traditional  delay 

Was  all  too  short:  the  trial  day 

Dawned  red  and  menacing.    The  Judge 

Sat  on  the  Bench  and  wouldn't  budge, 


122    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

And  all  the  motions  counsel  made 
Could  not  move  him — and  there  he  stayed. 
"  The  case  must  now  proceed,"  he  said, 
"While  I  am  just,  in  heart  and  head. 
It  happens — as,  indeed,  it  ought — 
/    Both  sides  with  equal  sums  have  bought 
My  favor:    I  can  try  the  cause 
Impartially."      (Prolonged  applause.) 


The  prisoner  was  now  arraigned 

And  said  that  he  was  greatly  pained 

To  be  suspected — he,  whose  pen 

Had  charged  so  many  other  men 

With  crimes  and   misdemeanors !     "  Why," 

He  said,  a  tear  in  either  eye, 

"  If  men  who  live  by  crying  out 

'  Stop  thief !  '  are  not  themselves  from  doubt 

Of  their  integrity  exempt 

Let  all  forego  the  vain  attempt 

To  make  a  reputation!     Sir, 

I'm  innocent,  and  I  demur." 

Whereat  a  thousand  voices  cried 

That  he  indubitably  lied — 

Fox  popull  as  loudly  roared 

As  bull  by  picadores  gored, 

In  his  own  coin  receiving  pay 

To  make  a  Spanish  holiday. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE         123 

The  jury — twelve  good  men  and  true — 
Were  then  sworn  in  to  see  it  through^ 
And  each  made  solemn  oath  that  he 
As  any  babe  unborn  was  free 
From  prejudice,  opinion,   thought, 
/   Respectability,  brains — aught 
That  could  disqualify;  and  some 
Explained  that  they  were  deaf  and  dumb. 
A  better  twelve,  his  Honor  said, 
Was  rare,  except  among  the  dead. 
The  witnesses  were  called  and  sworn. 
The  tales  they  told  made  angels  mourn, 
And  the  Good  Book  they'd  kissed  became 
Red  with  the  consciousness  of  shame. 
Whenever  one  of  them  approached 
The  truth,  "  That  witness  wasn't  coached, 
Your  Honor ! "  cried  the  lawyers  both. 
"  Strike  out  his  testimony,"  quoth 
The  learned  Judge;  "this  court  denies 
Its  ear  to  stories  that  surprise. 
I  hold  that  witnesses  exempt 
From  coaching  all  are  in  contempt." 
Both  Prosecution  and  Defense 
Applauded  the  judicial  sense, 
And  the  spectators  all  averred 
Such  wisdom  they  had  never  heard: 
'Twas  plain  the  prisoner  would  be 
Found  guilty  in  the  first  degree. 


124    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Meanwhile  that  wight's  pale  cheek  confessed 

The  nameless  terrors  in  his  breast. 

He  felt  remorseful,  too,  because 

He  wasn't  half  they  said  he  was. 

"  If  I'd  been  such  a  rogue,"  he  mused 

On  opportunities  unused, 

"  I  might  have  easily  become 

As  wealthy  as  Methusalum." 

This  journalist  adorned,  alas, 

The  middle,  not  the  Bible,  class. 


With  equal  skill  the  lawyers'  pleas 
Attested  their  divided  fees. 
Each  gave  the  other  one  the  lie, 
Then  helped  him  frame  a  sharp  reply. 
Good  Lord!  it  was  a  bitter  fight, 
And  lasted  all  the  day  and  night. 
When  once  or  oftener  the  roar 
Had  silenced  the  judicial  snore 
The  speaker  suffered  for  the  sport 
By  fining  for  contempt  of  court. 
Twelve  jurors'  noses  good  and  true 
Unceasing  sang  the  trial  through, 
And  even  vox  populi  was  spent 
In  rattles  through  a  nasal  vent. 
Clerk,  bailiff,  constables  and  all 
Heard  Morpheus  sound  the  trumpet  call 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        125 

To  arms — his  arms — and  all  fell  in 
Save  counsel  for  the  Man  of  Sin. 
That  thaumaturgist  stood  and  swayed 
The  wand  their  faculties  obeyed — • 
That  magic  wand,  which,  like  a  flame, 
Leaped,  wavered,  quivered  and  became 
A  wonder-worker — known  among 
The  ignoble  vulgar  as  a  Tongue. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  my  verse 

Runs  on  for  better  or  for  worse 

In  meter  which  o'ermasters  me, 

Octosyllabically  free ! — 

A  meter,  which,  the  poets  say, 

No  power  of  restraint  can  stay; — 

A  hard-mouthed  meter,  suited  well 

To  him  who,  having  naught  to  tell, 

Must  hold  attention  as  a  trout 

Is  held  by  paying  out  and  out 

The  slender  line  which  else  would  break 

Should  one  attempt  the  fish  to  take. 

Thus  tavern  guides  who've  naught  to  show 

But  some  adjacent  curio 

By  devious  trails  their  patrons  lead 

And  make  them  think  'tis  far  indeed. 

Where  was  I? 

While  the  lawyer  talked 
The  rogue  took  up  his  feet  and  walked: 


126    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

While  all  about  him  loudly  slept, 
Into  the  street  he  calmly  stepped. 
In  very  truth,  the  man  who  thought 
The  people's  voice  from  heaven  had  caught 
God's  inspiration  took  a  change 
Of  venue — it  was  passing  strange! 
Straight  to  his  editor  he  went 
And  that  ingenious  person  sent 
A  Negro  to  impersonate 
The   fugitive.     In  adequate 
Disguise  he  took  the  vacant  place 
And  buried  in  his  arms  his  face. 
When  all  was  done  the  lawyer  stopped 
And  silence  like  a  bombshell  dropped 
Upon  the  court:  Judge,  jury,  all 
Within  that  venerable  hall 
(Except  the  deaf  and  dumb,  indeed, 
And  one  or  two  whom  death  had  freed) 
Awoke  and  tried  to  look  as  though 
Slumber  was  all  they  did  not  know. 


And  now  that  tireless  lawyer-man 
Took  breath,  and  then  again  began: 
"  Your  Honor,  if  you  did  attend 
To  what  I've  urged  (my  learned  friend 
Nodded  concurrence)   to  support 
The  motion  I  have  made,  this  court 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        127 

May  soon  adjourn.     With  your  assent 

I've  shown  abundant  precedent 

For  introducing  now,  though  late, 

New  evidence  to  exculpate 

My  client.     So,  if  you'll  allow, 

I'll  prove  an  alibi!"     "What?— how?" 

Stammered  the  Judge.     "Well,  yes,  I  can't 

Deny  your  showing,  and  I  grant 

The  motion.     Do  I  understand 

You  undertake  to  prove — good  land! — 

That  when  the  crime — you  mean  to  show 

Your  client  wasn't  there?  "    "  O,  no, 

I  cannot  quite  do  that,  I  find: 

My  alibi's  another  kind 

Of  alibi — I'll  make  it  clear, 

Your  Honor,  that  he  isn't  here." 

The  Darky  here  upreared  his  head, 

Tranquillity  affrighted  fled 

And  consternation  reigned  instead! 


A   MEETING 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Garfield,  extending  his  hand, 
To  Mr.  Parnell  in  the  Heavenly  Land. 
"  Good  morning,  good  morning,"  said  Mr.  Parnell ; 
"  I  hope  (though  'tis  needless  to  ask)  you  are  well. 


128    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

How  sweetly  that  chorus  of  cherubim  sings! 
Pray  how  do  you  manage  these  cumbersome  wings? 
This  halo — I  dare  say  I'm  terribly  green, 
But  somehow  I  can't  make  it  hold  my  dudheen. 
This  harp  is  all  right,  but  the  shamrock  I  miss, 
And — O,  by  the  way,  in  this  region  of  bliss 
I  trust  that  the  rascally  schemer  who  wrote 
The  Morey  epistle,  which  lost  you  the  vote 
Electoral,  I  am  not  likely  to  meet  ?  " 


Then  Garfield,  his  eyes  on  the  cloud  at  his  feet, 
Burned  in  the  cheeks  with  a  fervor  divine 
That  conquered  his  halo's  inferior  shine; 
Then  said,  with  a  look  that  was  level  and  far: 
"  I  fear  (to  be  honest  and  frank)  that  you  are. 
The  person  who  wrote  that  mysterious,  queer, 
Bad  letter  is  here — ah,  exceedingly  here." 
And  he  smiled  in  an  infantile  sort  of  a  way, 
Like  a  man  with  a  qualm,  and  went  on  to  say: 
"  I'm  happy  to  meet  you.     What  news  from  below? 
Did  it  look  when  you  left  there  as  if  they  would  show 
Who  wrote,  with  a  villainous  purpose  in  view, 
The  peppery  letters  imputed  to  you  ?  " 


Said  Mr.  Parnell:     "Yes,  it  did,  I  must  say — 
In  fact,  that's  the  reason  I  hastened  away." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        129 

Then  they  sang  a  psalm,  and  they  sang  so  well 
That  Murchison  heard  it  whil^e  sobbing  in  Hell. 


J.  F.  B. 

How  well  this  man  unfolded  to  our  view 
The  world's  beliefs  of  Death  and  Heaven  and 

Hell— 
This  man  whose  own  convictions  none  could  tell, 

Nor  if  his  maze  of  reason  had  a  clew. 

Dogmas  he  wrote  for  daily  bread,  but  knew 
The  fair  philosophies  of  doubt  so  well 
That  while  we  listened  to  his  words  there  fell 

Some  that  were  strangely  comforting  if  true. 

Marking  how  wise  we  grew  upon  his  doubt, 
We  said :    "  If  so,  by  groping  in  the  night, 
He  can  proclaim  some  certain  paths  of  trust, 

How  great  our  profit  if  he  saw  about 

His  feet  the  highways  leading  to  the  light." 
Now  he  sees  all.   Ah,  Christ!  his  mouth  is  dust! 

THE  DYING  STATESMAN 

It  is  a  politician  man — 

He  draweth  near  his  end, 
And  friends  weep  round  that  partisan, 

Of  every  man  the  friend. 


130    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Between  the  Known  and  the  Unknown 

He  lieth  on  the  strand; 
The  light  upon  the  sea  is  thrown 

That  lay  upon  the  land. 

It  shineth  in  his  glazing  eye, 

It  burneth  on  his  face; 
God  send  that  when  we  come  to  die 

We  know  that  sign  of  grace! 

Upon  his  lips  his  blessed  sprite 

Poiseth  her  joyous  wing. 
"How  is  it  with  thee,  child  of  light? 

Dost  hear  the  angels  sing?" 

"  The  song  I  hear,  the  crown  I  see, 
And  know  that  God  is  love. 

Farewell,  dark  world — I  go  to  be 
A  postmaster  above !  " 

For  him  no  monumental  arch, 
But,  O,  'tis  good  and  brave 

To  see  the  Grand  Old  Party  march 
To  office  o'er  his  gravel 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        131 


THE    DEATH    OF    GRANT 

Father]  whose  hard  and  cruel  law 
Is  part  of  thy  compassion's  plan, 
Thy  works  presumptuously  we  scan 

For  what  the  prophets  say  they  saw. 

Unbidden  still  the  awful  slope 
Walling  us  in  we  climb  to  gain 
Assurance  of  the  shining  plain 

That  faith  has  certified  to  hope. 

In  vain! — beyond  the  circling  hill 
The  shadow  and  the  cloud  abide. 
Subdue  the  doubt,  our  spirits  guide 

To  trust  the  record  and  be  still. 

To  trust  it  loyally  as  he 
Who,  heedful  of  his  high  design, 
Ne'er  raised  a  seeking  eye  to  thine, 

But  wrought  thy  will  unconsciously, 

Disputing  not  of  chance  or  fate, 
Nor  questioning  of  cause  or  creed ; 
For  anything  but  duty's  deed 

Too  simply  wise,  too  humbly  great. 


132    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  cannon  syllabled  his  name; 
His  shadow  shifted  o'er  the  land, 
Portentous,  as  at  his  demand 

Successive  bastions  sprang  to  flame! 


He  flared  the  continent  with  fire, 
The  rivers  ran  in  lines  of  light! 
Thy  will  be  done  on  earth — if  right 

Or  wrong  he  cared  not  to  inquire. 

His  was  the  heavy  hand,  and  his 
The  service  of  the  despot  blade; 
His  the  soft  answer  that  allayed 

War's  giant  animosities. 

Let  us  have  peace:  our  clouded  eyes, 
Fill,  Father,  with  another  light, 
That  we  may  see  with  clearer  sight 

Thy  servant's  soul  in  Paradise. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  REFILLED 

Of  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
The  Muse  of  History  records 
That  he'd  get  drunk  as  twenty  lords. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        133 

He'd  get  so  truly  drun£  that  men 
Stood  by  to  marvel  at  him  when 
His  slow  advance  along  the  street 
Was  but  a  vain  cycloidal  feat. 

And  when  'twas  fated  that  he  fall 
With  a  wide,  geographic  sprawl, 
They  signified  assent  by  sounds 
Heard  (faintly)  at  its  utmost  bounds. 

And  yet  this  Mr.  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Cast  not  on  wine  his  thirsty  eyes 
When  it  was  red  or  otherwise. 

All  malt  or  spirituous  tope 
He  loathed  as  cats  dissent  from  soap; 
And  cider,  if  it  touched  his  lip, 
Evoked  a  groan  at  every  sip. 

But  still,  as  heretofore  explained, 
He  not  infrequently  was  grained. 
(I'm  not  of  those  who  call  it  "corned" — 
Coarse  speech  I've  always  duly  scorned.) 

Though,  truth  to  say,  and  that's  but  right, 
Strong  drink  (it  hath  an  adder's  bite!) 


134    THE   COLLECTED   WOKKS 

Was  what  had  put  him  in  the  mud, 
The  only  kind  he  used  was  blood! 


Alas  that  an  immortal  soul 
Addicted  to  the  flowing  bowl 
The  emptied  flagon  should  again 
Replenish  from  a  neighbor's  vein! 

But,  Mr.  Shanahan  was  so 
Constructed,  and  his  taste  that  low. 
Not  more  deplorable  was  he 
In  kind  of  thirst  than  in  degree; 

For  sometimes  fifty  souls  would  pay 
The  debt  of  nature  in  a  day 
To  free  him  from  the  shame  and  pain 
Of  dread  Sobriety's  misreign. 

His  native  land,  with  a  proud  sense 
Of  his  unique  inabstinence, 
Abated  something  of  its  pride 
At  thought  of  his  unfilled  inside; 

And  some  the  boldness  had  to  say 
'Twere  well  if  he  were  called  away 
To  slake  his  thirst  for  evermore 
In  oceans  of  celestial  gore. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE         135 

But  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Knew  that  his  thirst  was  mortal;  so 
Remained  unsainted  here  below — 

Unsainted  and  unsaintly,  for 
He  neither  went  to  glory  nor 
To  abdicate  his  power  deigned 
Where,  under  Providence,  he  reigned, 

But  kept  his  Boss's  power  accurst 
To  serve  his  wild  uncommon  thirst, 
Which  now  had  grown  so  truly  great 
It  was  a  drain  upon  the  State. 

Soon,  soon  there  came  a  time,  alas! 
When  he  turned  down  an  empty  glass — 
All  practicable  means  were  vain 
His  special  wassail  to  obtain. 

In  vain  poor  Decimation  tried 
To  furnish  forth  the  needful  tide; 
And  Civil  War  as  vainly  shed 
Its  niggard  offering  of  red. 

Poor  Shanahan!  his  thirst  increased 
Until  he  wished  himself  deceased, 


136    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Invoked  the  firearm  and  the  knife, 
But  could  not  die  to  save  his  life! 


He  was  so  dry  his  own  veins  made 
No  answer  to  the  seeking  blade; 

So  weak  that  when  he  would  have  passed 
Away  he  could  not  breathe  his  last. 

'Twas  then,  when  almost  in    despair, 
(Unlaced  his  shoon,  unkempt  his  hair) 
He  saw  as  in  a  dream  a  way 
To  wet  afresh  his  mortal  clay. 

Yes,  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 
(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 
Saw  freedom,  and  with  joy  and  pride 
"Thalassa!    (or  Thalatta!)"  cried. 

Straight  to  the  alderman  went  he, 
With  many  a  "  pull "  and  many  a  fee, 
And  many  a  most  corrupt  "  combine  " 
(The  Press  for  twenty  cents  a  line 


Held  out  and  fought  him — O  God  bless 
Forevermore  the  holy   Press!) 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        137 

Till  he  had  franchises  complete 
For  trolley  lines  on  every  street! 


The  cars  were  builded  and,  they  say, 
Were  run  on  rails  laid  every  way — 
Rhomboidal  roads,  and  circular, 
And  oval— everywhere  a  car — 

Square,  dodecagonal  (in  great 
Esteem  the  form  called  Figure  8) 
And  many  other  kinds  of  form 
As  different  as  paths  of  storm. 

No  other  group  of  men's  abodes 
E'er  had  so  odd  electric  roads, 
Which,  winding  in  and  winding  out, 
Began  and  ended  all  about. 

No  city  had,  unless  in  Mars, 
That  city's  fatal  gift  of  cars. 
They  ran  by  day,  they  flew  by  night, 
And  O,  the  sorry,  sorry  sight! 

And  Hans  Pietro  Shanahan 

(Who  was  a  most  ingenious  man) 

Incessantly,  the  Muse  records, 

Lay  drunk  as  twenty  thousand  lords! 


138    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


LAUS  LUCIS 

Theosophists  are  about  to  build  a  "  Temple  for  the  Revival 
of  the  Mysteries  of  Antiquity." — Vide  the  Newspapers,  passim. 

Each  to  his  taste:  some  men  prefer  to  play 

At  mystery,  and  others  at  piquet. 

Some  sit  in  mystic  meditation;  some 

Parade  the  street  with  tambourine  and  drum. 

One  studies  to  decipher  ancient  lore 

Which,  proving  stuff,  he  studies  all  the  more; 

Another  swears  that  learning  is  but  good 

To  darken  things  already  understood, 

Then  writes  upon  Simplicity  so  well 

That  none  agree  on  what  he  wants  to  tell, 

And  future  ages  will  declare  his  pen 

Inspired  by  gods  with  messages  to  men. 

To  found  an  ancient  order,  these  devote 

Their  time — with  ritual,  regalia,  goat, 

Blankets  for  tossing,  chairs  of  little  ease 

And  all  the  modern  inconveniences; 

Those,  saner,  frown  upon  unmeaning  rites 

And  go  to  church  for  rational  delights. 

So  all  are  suited,  shallow  and  profound, 

The  prophets  prosper  and  the  world  goes  round. 

For  me — unread  in  the  occult,  I'm  fain 

To  damn  all  mysteries  alike  as  vain, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        139 

Spurn  the  obscure  and  base  my  faith  upon 
The  Revelations  of  the  good  St.  John. 


NANINE 

We  heard  a  song-bird  trilling — 

'Twas  but  a  day  ago. 
Such  rapture  he  was  rilling 

As  only  we  could  know. 

This  morning  he  is  flinging 
His  music  from  the  tree, 

But  something  in  the  singing 
Is  not  the  same  to  me. 

His  inspiration  fails  him, 
Or  he  has  lost  his  skill. 

Nanine,  Nanine,  what  ails  him 
That  he  should  sing  so  ill? 

Nanine  is  not  replying — 
She  hears  no  earthly  song. 

The  sun  and  bird  are  lying 
And  the  night  is,  O,  so  long! 


140    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


TECHNOLOGY 

'Twas  a  serious  person  with  locks  of  gray 

And  a  figure  like  a  crescent; 
His  gravity,  clearly,  had  come  to  stay, 

But  his  smile  was  evanescent. 

He  stood  and  conversed  with  a  neighbor  and 
With  (likewise)  a  high  falsetto; 

And  he  stabbed  his  forefinger  into  his  hand 
As  if  it  had  been  a  stiletto. 

His  words,  like  the  notes  of  a  tenor  drum, 
Came  out  of  his  head  unblended, 

And  the  wonderful  altitude  of  some 
Was  exceptionally  splendid. 

While  executing  a  shake  of  the  head, 

With  the  hand,  as  it  were,  of  a  master, 
This  agonizing  old  gentleman  said: 
'  'Twas  a  truly  sad  disaster ! 

"  Four  hundred  and  ten  longs  and  shorts  in  all, 
Went  down  " — he  paused  and  snuffled. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        141 

A  single  tear  was  observed  to  fall, 

And  the  old  man's  drum  was  muffled. 


"  A  very  calamitous  year,"  he  said, 

And  again  his  head-piece  hoary 
He  shook,  and  another  pearl  he  shed, 

As  if  he  wept  con  amore. 

"  O  lacrymose  person,"  I  cried,  "  pray  why 
Should  these  failures  so  affect  you? 

With  speculators  in  stocks  no  eye 

That's  normal  would  ever  connect  you." 

He  focused  his  orbs  upon  mine  and  smiled 

In  a  sinister  sort  of  manner. 
"Young  man,"  he  said,  "your  words  are  wild; 

I  spoke  of  the  steamship  '  Hanner.' 

"  For  she  has  went  down  in  a  howlin*  squall, 
And  my  heart  is  nigh  to  breakin' — 

Four  hundred  and  ten  longs  and  shorts  in  all 
Will  never  need  undertakin'! 

"  I'm  in  the  business  myself,"  said  he, 
"And  you've  mistook  my  expression; 

For  I  uses  the  technical  terms,  you  see, 
Employed  in  my  perfession." 


142    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

That  old  undertaker  has  joined  the  throng 
On  the  other  side  of  the  River, 

But  I'm  still  unhappy  to  think  I'm  a  "long," 
And  a  tape-line  makes  me  shiver. 


A  REPLY  TO  A  LETTER 

O  nonsense,  parson — tell  me  not  they  thrive 

And  jubilate  who  follow  your  dictation. 
The  good  are  the  unhappiest  lot  alive — 

I  know  they  are  from  careful  observation. 

If  freedom  from  the  terrors  of  damnation 
Lengthens  the  visage  like  a  telescope, 
And  lacrymosity's  a  sign  of  hope, 

Then  I'll  continue,  in  my  dreadful  plight, 
To  tread  the  dusky  paths  of  sin,  and  grope 

Contentedly  without  your  lantern's  light; 

And  though  in  many  a  bog  beslubbered  quite, 
Refuse  to  flay  me  with  ecclesiastic  soap. 

You  say  'tis  a  sad  world,  seeing  I'm  condemned, 
With  many  a  million  others  of  my  kidney. 

Each  continent's  Hammed,  Japheted  and  Shemmed 
With  sinners — worldlings  like  Sir  Philip  Sidney 

And  scoffers  like  Voltaire,  who  thought  it  bliss 

To  simulate  respect  for  Genesis — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        143 

Who  bent  the  mental  knee  as  if  in  prayer, 
But  mocked  at  Moses  underneath  his  hair, 
And  like  an  angry  gander  bowed  his  head  to  hiss. 

Seeing  such  as  these,  who  die  without  contrition, 
Must  go  to — beg  your  pardon,  sir — perdition, 
The  sons  of  light,  you  tell  me,  can't  be  gay, 
But  count  it  sin  of  the  sort  called  omission 
The  groan  to  smother  or  the  tear  to  stay 
Or  fail  to — what  is  that  they  live  by? — pray. 
So  down  they  kneel,  and  the  whole  serious  race  is 
Put  by  divine  compassion  on  a  praying  basis. 

Well,  if  you  take  it  so  to  heart,  while  yet 

Our  own  hearts  are  so  light  with  nature's  leaven, 
You'll  weep  indeed  when  we  in  Hades  sweat, 
And  you  look  down  upon  us  out  of  Heaven. 
In  fancy,  lo!  I  see  your  wailing  shades 
Thronging  the  crystal  battlements.     Cascades 
Of  tears  spring  singing  from  each  golden  spout, 
Run  roaring  from  the  verge  with  hoarser  sound, 
Dash  downward  through  the  glimmering  pro 
found, 
Quench  the  tormenting  flame  and  put  the  Devil  out! 

Presumptuous  fool!  to  you  no  power  belongs 
To  pitchfork  me  to  Heaven  upon  the  prongs 


144    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Of  a  bad  pen,  whose  disobedient  sputter, 
With  less  of  ink  than  incoherence  fraught, 

Befits  the  folly  that  it  tries  to  utter. 

Brains,  I  observe,  as  well  as  tongues,  can  stutter: 
You  suffer  from  impediment  of  thought, 

Save  when  considering  your  bread-and-butter. 


When  next  you  "  point  the  way  to  Heaven,"  take  care : 
Your    fingers    being    thumbs,    point    Heaven    knows 

where ! 

Farewell,  poor  dunce!  your  letter  though  I  blame, 
Bear  witness  how  my  anger  I  can  tame: 
I've  called  you  everything  except  your  hateful  name! 


TO  OSCAR  WILDE 

Because  from  Folly's  lips  you  got 
Some  babbled  mandate  to  subdue 
The  realm  of  Common  Sense,  and  you 

Made  promise  and  considered  not, — 

Because  you  strike  a  random  blow 
At  what  you  do  not  understand, 
And  beckon  with  a  friendly  hand 

To  something  that  you  do  not  know, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        145 

I  hold  no  speech  of  your  desert, 
Nor  baffle  with  porrected  shield 
The  wooden  weapon  that  you  wield, 

But  meet  you  with  a  cast  of  dirt. 

Dispute  with  such  a  thing  as  you — 
Twin  show  to  the  two-headed  calf? 
Why,  sir,  if  I  repress  my  laugh, 

'Tis  more  than  half  the  world  can  do. 
1882. 


BORN   LEADERS   OF  MEN 

Tuckerton  Tamerlane  Morey  Mahosh 

Is  a  statesman  of  world-wide  fame, 
With  a  notable  knack  at  rhetorical  bosh 

To  glorify  somebody's  name — 
Somebody  chosen  by  Tuckerton's  masters 
To  succor  the  country  from  divers  disasters 
Portentous  to  Mr.  Mahosh. 


Percy  O'Halloran  Tarpy  Cabee 

Is  in  the  political  swim. 
He  cares  not  a  button  for  men,  not  he: 

Great  principles  captivate  him — 


146    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Principles  cleverly  cut  out  and  fitted 
To  Percy's  capacity,  duly  admitted 
And  fought  for  by  Mr.  Cabee. 


Drusus  Turn  Swinnerton  Porfer  Fitzurse 

Holds  office  the  most  of  his  life. 
For  men  nor  for  principles  cares  he  a  curse 

But  much  for  his  neighbor's  wife. 
The  Ship  of  State  leaks,  but  he  doesn't  pump  any- 
Messrs.  Mahosh,  Cabee  &  Company 
Pump  for  good  Mr.  Fitzurse. 


THE   CRIME   OF   1903 

Time  was,  not  very  long  ago, 

As  by  historians  time  is  reckoned, 
When  first  of  virtues  here  below 
Was  hatred  of  secession,  though 

Some  swore  it  wasn't  even  second; 
But  these  (they  mostly  were  down  South) 

Have  all  renounced  their  view  with  candor- 
Some  tardily  by  word  of  mouth, 

Some,  earlier,  in  a  manner  grander. 

To  stamp  their  error  out,  'tis  true, 
We  paid  enough  of  blood  (the  treasure 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        147 

Would  pave  with  gold  an  avenue) 
To  float  a  battleship  or  two, 

If  so  the  cost  we  choose  to  measure. 
'Twas  worth  it  all,  we  say  and  say — 

The  President  has  often  said  it; 
And  so  it  was — to  us;  and  they 

Say  nothing,  as  a  rule,  who  shed  it. 

"  Times  change  and  we  change  with  them," 
men 

Of  old  renown  averred  in  Latin; 
And  that's  as  true  on  tongue  or  pen 
This  blessed  century  as  when 

The  seat  of  empire  Caesar  sat  in. 
For  see  how  many  play  their  parts 

As  ardent  lovers  of  secession, 
Promoting  it  with  all  their  hearts — 

In  countries  out  of  our  possession. 

O  men  of  variable  views, 

How  can  you  be  so  light  and  fickle  ? 
Is  it  because  you  think  the  news 
From  Panama  portends  no  bruise 

To  you,  nor  payment  of  a  nickel? 
Nay,  is  it  that  you  scent  a  gain 

In  troubles  of  a  neighbor  nation, 
And  so  appraise  her  loss  and  pain 

As  nothing  worth  a  valuation? 


148    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Those  ills  'tis  easy  to  endure 

That  light  upon  and  sting  another — 
That's  Christian  fortitude;  but  sure 
There's  somewhere  an  account  of  your 

Least  feeling  toward  a  hapless  brother. 
Himself  may  show  by  deed  and  speech 

Less  racial  sympathies  than  tribal, 
But — well,  this  is  no  place  to  preach; 

The  sermon's  mostly  in  the  Bible. 

We're  false  to  trust  and  quick  to  spy 

The  fissure  in  a  friendly  armor, 
Even  Freedom  can  no  more  rely 

Upon  our  promise  not  to  harm  her. 
O  Guardian  of  Continents, 

My  country!  shall  that  evil  dower, 
The  passion  for  preeminence, 
Cry  from  thy  seaward  battlements 

A  soul  already  drunk  with  power? 
1903. 

FOR    EXPULSION 

They  say,  Brig.  Roberts,  you  have  seven  wives, 
And  every  one  a  beauty!     As  to  that 

I'm  not  informed;  in  the  domestic  hives 

Of  Utah,  where  I've  sometimes  hung  my  hat, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        149 

Not  all  the  dames  were  comely.    Like  a  cat 
That  has  nine  lives  and  must  support  them  all, 

You  have  to  hustle  round  a  bit,  I  fancy. 
Now  don't  you  really  agree  with  Paul 

That  women  are  the  devil? — even  Nancy 
And  Mary  Jane  and  Caroline  and  Ella 
And  Ruth  and  Adeline  and  Isabella! 

If  I  had  half  as  many  wives  as  you 

(That's  three  wives  and  a  half  as  I  compute) 

I  hardly  know  what  I'd  be  driven  to. 
I  might  in  desperation  play  the  flute, 
Or  Congress  find  in  me  a  raw  recruit. 

Then,  I  suppose,  the  country  would  uprise 

And  say  the  things  I  least  should  care  to  hear: 

And  virtuous  editors  would  damn  my  eyes, 
And  cartilaginous  virgins  pain  my  ear, 

And  now  and  then  some  pious  person  clamor, 

Blessed  with  one  wife,  ten  wenches  and  no  grammar. 

All  that  and  more  you're  suffering,  my  friend, 

For,  having  married  all  the  maids  you  saw, 
You  contumaciously  refuse  to  bend 

A  corrigible  back  to  altered  law 

And  leave  them  (all  but  one)  lamenting.     Pshaw! 
Don't  be  so  squeamish.     Yes,  the  children  may 

Lament  a  little  too  when  made  acquainted 


150    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

With  their  mischance  in  being  put  away, 

And  your  own  countenance  with  shame  be  painted; 
But  that's  the  smallest  price  for  which  we'll  sell 
A  seat  in  Congress  and  a  bed  in  Hell. 


JUDEX  JOCOSUS 

We  blench  when  maniacs  to  dance  begin. 
What  makes  a  skull  so  dreadful  is  the  grin. 
When  horrible  and  ludicrous  unite, 
Our  sense  of  humor  does  but  feed  our  fright. 
As  the  shocked  spirit  with  a  double  dread 
Might  see  a  monkey  watching  by  the  dead, 
Or  headsman  part  a  neck,  without  a  fault, 
While  turning  o'er  the  block  a  somersault. 
So,  Judge  Hilario,  the  untroubled  awe 
And  reverence  men  cherish  for  the  law 
Turn  all  to  terror  when  with  wit  profound 
And  tricksy  humor  you  the  law  expound. 
More  frightful  sounds  the  felon's  doom  by  half 
From  lips  still  twisted  to  an  idiot  laugh. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        151 


"GRAFT" 

Cuba,  our  pupil,  let  thy  glory  shine — 
Our  own  is  brighter,  but  effulgent  thine! 
Lately  thine  arms  struck  terror  to  the  foe, 
And  now  thy  hands  bring  treasuries  to  woe! 
Daughter  of  Terrors,  Mother  of  Alarms, 
Courage  himself  may  fly  before  thine  arms; 
But  O,  what  thing  escapes,  what  thing  withstands, 
The  power  of  those  comprehensive  hands? 


THE  TALE  OF  A  CRIME 

Once,  in  the  olden  time,  a  certain  King 
(But  where  he  reigned  I  know  not)   said:     "Go  bring 
My  Chief  Adviser  here  before  the  throne, 
And  cut  his  head  off  clear  down  to  the  bone ! " 
"With  pleasure,  Sire,"  said — keen  to  earn  his  wage — 
The  High  Dissuader  from  the  Sin  of  Age; 
"  But  kings  should  still  be  civil,  even  when  just: 
You'll  charge  the  villain  with  some  crime,  I  trust  ?  " 

"Why,  that's  no  more  than  fair,"  the  King  replied. 
They  brought  the  culprit  in,  securely  tied, 


152    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

And  the  King  said :  "  Let  some  one  who  can  read 
Stand  forward  and  unfold  the  Golden  Screed, 
Bright  with  the  names  of  all  the  sins  and  crimes 
And  vices  ever  known  from  ancient  times. 
We'll  fit  the  fellow  for  the  headsman's  prank 
With  one  appropriate  to  his  face  and  rank." 

In  drowsy  monotone  the  Lector  read 

The  shining  list,  beginning  at  the  head. 

(Lese  majeste  was  naturally  first — 

Of  crimes  conceivable,  the  blackest,  worst!) 

As  each  was  named  the  prisoner  addressed 

The  throne  and,  as  the  law  compelled,  confessed. 

'Twas  fatal  not  to:  in  that  olden  day 

Little  was  heard  about  the  law's  delay. 

But  still  the  royal  taste  could  find  for  him 

No  crime  well  suited  to  the  royal  whim, 

And,  wearied  by  the  reader's  droning  voice, 

The  sovereign  fell  asleep,  nor  made  a  choice — 

Snored  like  an  organ  till  the  stones  were  jarred 

Distinguishing  the  palace  from  the  yard. 

Meantime,  the  accused  continued  to  confess, 

Each  nod  said  "  guilty  "  and  each  look  said  "  yes." 

And  still  the  monarch  slept:  each  courtier  feared 
To  wake  him  lest  himself  should  "  lose  his  beard." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        153 

('Twas  a  fine  euphemism,  and  meant  his  head — 

Some  things  for  prudence  are  obliquely  said.) 

"Finis,"  the  reader  said,  and  roundabout 

Fell  silence  like  a  loud  awakening  shout! 

The  startled  sovereign  left  a  snore  half-snored — 

"  That's  what  the  scoundrel's  guilty  of ! "  he  roared. 

So  there  before  the  king  upon  his  throne 
They  cut  his  head  off  clean  down  to  the  bone! 
And  all  the  devils  made  a  joyous  din 
To  celebrate  the  new  and  lovely  sin. 


TO  THE  BARTHOLDI   STATUE 

O  Liberty,  God-gifted — 

Young  and  immortal  maid — 

In  your  high  hand  uplifted, 
The  torch  declares  your  trade. 

Its  crimson  menace,  flaming 
Upon  the  sea  and  shore, 

Is,  trumpet-like,  proclaiming 
That  Law  shall  be  no  more. 

Austere  incendiary, 

We're  blinking  in  the  light; 


154    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Where  is  your  customary 
Grenade  of  dynamite? 


Where  are  your  staves  and  switches 
For  men  of  gentle  birth? 

Your  mask  and  dirk  for  riches? 
Your  chains  for  wit  and  worth? 

Perhaps,  you've  brought  the  halters 

You  used  in  the  old  days, 
When  round  religion's  altars 

You  stabled  Cromwell's  bays? 

Behind  you,  unsuspected, 

Have  you  the  axe,  fair  wench, 
Wherewith  you  once  collected 

A  poll-tax  from  the  French? 

America  salutes  you — 

Preparing  to  "disgorge." 
Take  everything  that  suits  you, 

And  marry  Henry  George. 
1894. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        155 


AN   UNMERRY  CHRISTMAS 

Christmas,  you  tell  me,  comes  but  once  a  year. 
One  place  it  never  comes,  and  that  is  here. 
Here,  in  these  pages  no  good  wishes  spring, 
No  well-worn  greetings  tediously  ring — 
For  Christmas  greetings  are  like  pots  of  ore: 
The  hollower  they  are  they  ring  the  more. 
Here  shall  no  holly  cast  a  spiny  shade, 
Nor  mistletoe  my  solitude  invade, 
No  trinket-laden  vegetable  come, 
No  jorum  steam  with  Sheolate  of  rum. 
No  shrilling  children  shall  their  voices  rear. 
Hurrah  for  Christmas  without  Christmas  cheer! 

No  presents,  if  you  please — I  know  too  well 

What  Herbert  Spencer,  if  he  didn't  tell 

(I  know  not  if  he  did)  yet  might  have  told 

Of  present-giving  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  Early  Man  with  gifts  propitiated 

The  chiefs  whom  most  he  doubted,  feared  and  hated, 

Or  tendered  them  in  hope  to  reap  some  rude 

Advantage  from  the  taker's  gratitude. 

Since  thus  the  Gift  its  origin  derives 

(How  much  of  its  first  character  survives 


156    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

You  know  as  well  as  I)  my  stocking's  tied, 
My  pocket  buttoned — with  my  soul  inside. 
I  save  my  money  and  I  save  my  pride. 

Dinner?    Yes;  thank  you — just  a  baby's  body 

Done  to  a  nutty  brown,  and  a  tear  toddy 

To  give  me  appetite;  and  as  to  drink, 

About  a  half  a  jug  of  blood,  I  think, 

Will  do;  for  still  I  love  that  good  red  wine, 

Coagulating  well,  with  wrinkles  fine 

Fretting  the  satin  surface  of  its  flood. 

O  tope  of  kings — divine  Falernian — blood! 

Duse  take  the  shouting  fowls  upon  the  limb, 
The  kneeling  cattle  and  the  rising  hymn ! 
Has  not  a  pagan  rights  to  be  regarded — 
His  heart  assaulted  and  his  ear  bombarded 
With  sentiments  and  sounds  that  good  old  Pan 
Even  in  his  demonium  would  ban? 


No,  friends — no  Christmas  here,  for  I  have  sworn 
To  keep  my  heart  hard  and  my  knees  unworn. 
Enough  you  have  of  jester,  player,  priest: 
I  as  the  skeleton  attend  your  feast, 
In  the  mad  revelry  to  make  a  lull 
With  shaken  finger  and  with  bobbing  skull. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        157 

However  you  my  services  may  flout, 

Philosophy  disdain  and  reason  doubt, 

I  mean  to  hold  in  customary  state, 

My  dismal  revelry  and  celebrate 

My  yearly  rite  until  the  crack  o'  doom, — 

Ignore  the  cheerful  season's  warmth  and  bloom 

And  cultivate  an  oasis  of  gloom. 


FROM  VIRGINIA  TO  PARIS 

The  polecat,  sovereign  of  its  native  wood, 

Dashes  damnation  upon  bad  and  good; 

The  health  of  all  the  upas  trees  impairs 

By  exhalations  deadlier  than  theirs; 

Poisons  the  rattlesnake  and  warts  the  toad — 

The  creeks  go  rotten  and  the  rocks  corrode! 

She  shakes  o'er  breathless  hill  and  shrinking  dale 

The  horrid  aspergillus  of  her  tail! 

From  every  saturated  hair,  till  dry, 

The  spargent  fragrances  divergent  fly, 

Stifle  the  world  and  reek  along  the  sky! 

Removed  to  alien  scenes,  amid  the  strife 
Of  urban  odors  to  ungladden  life — 


158    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Where  gas  and  sewers  and  dead  dogs  conspire 
The  flesh  to  torture  and  the  soul  to  fire — 
Where  all  the  "  well  defined  and  several  stinks  " 
Known  to  mankind  hold  revel  and  high  jinks — 
Humbled  in  spirit,  smitten  with  a  sense 
Of  lost  distinction,  leveled  eminence, 
Her  powers  atrophied,  her  vigor  sunk, 
She  lives  deodorized,  a  sweeter  skunk. 


A  "  MUTE  INGLORIOUS  MILTON  " 

"  O,  I'm  the  Unaverage  Man, 

But  you  never  have  heard  of  me, 
For  my  brother,  the  Average  Man,  outran 

My  fame  with  rapiditee, 

And  I'm  sunk  in  Oblivion's  sea; 
But  my  bully  big  brother  the  world  can  span 

With  his  wide  notorietee. 
I  do  everything  that  I  can 

To  make  'em  attend  to  me, 
But  the  papers  ignore  the  Unaverage  Man 

With  a  weird  uniformitee." 

So  sang  with  a  dolorous  note 
A  voice  that  I  heard  from  the  beach ; 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        159 

On  the  sable  waters  it  seemed  to  float 

Like  a  mortal  part  of  speech. 
The  sea  was  Oblivion's  sea, 

And  I  cried  as  I  plunged  to  swim: 
"The  Unaverage  Man  shall  reside  with  me." 

But  he  didn't — I  stayed  with  him! 


THE  FREE  TRADER'S  LAMENT 

Oft  from  a  trading-boat  I  purchased  spice 

And  shells  and  corals,  brought  for  my  inspection 

From  the  fair  tropics — paid  a  Christian  price 

And  was  content  in  my  fool's  paradise, 

Where  never  had  been  heard  the  word  "  Protection." 

'Twas  my  sole  island;  there  I  dwelt  alone — 

No  customs-house,  collector  nor  collection, 
But  a  man  came  who  in  a  pious  tone 
Condoled  with  me  that  I  had  never  known 
The  manifest  advantage  of  Protection. 

So  when  the  trading-boat  arrived  one  day 
He  threw  a  stink-pot  into  its  mid-section. 

The  traders  paddled  for  their  lives  away, 

Nor  came  again  into  that  haunted  bay, 
The  blessed  home  thereafter  of  Protection. 


160    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Then  down  he  sat,  that  philanthropic  man, 

And  spat  upon  some  mud  of  his  selection, 
And  worked  it  with  his  knuckles  in  a  pan 
To  shapes  of  shells  and  coral  things,  and  span 
A  thread  of  song  in  glory  of  Protection. 

He  baked  them  in  the  sun.     His  air  devout 

Enchanted  me.     I  made  a  genuflexion: 
"  God  help  you,  gentle  sir,"  I  said.     "  No  doubt," 
He  answered  gravely,  "  I'll  get  on  without 
Assistance  now  that  we  have  got  Protection." 

Thenceforth  I  bought  his  wares — at  what  a  price 

For  shells  and  corals  of  such  imperfection! 
"  Ah,  now,"  said  he,  "  your  lot  is  truly  nice." 
But  still  in  all  that  isle  there  was  no  spice 
To  season  to  my  taste  that  dish,  Protection. 


SUBTERRANEAN   PHANTASIES 

I  died.     As  meekly  in  the  earth  I  lay, 
With  shriveled  fingers  reverently  folded, 

The  worm — uncivil  engineer! — my  clay 
Tunneled  industriously,  and  the  mole  did. 
My  body  could  not  dodge  them,  but  my  soul  did ; 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        161 

For  that  had  flown  from  this  terrestrial  ball 
And  I  was  rid  of  it  for  good  and  all. 

So  there  I  lay,  debating  what  to  do — 
What  measures  might  most  usefully  be  taken 

To  circumvent  the  subterranean  crew 
Of  anthropophagi  and  save  my  bacon. 
My  fortitude  was  all  the  while  unshaken, 

But  any  gentleman,  of  course,  protests 

Against  receiving  uninvited  guests. 

However  proud  he  might  be  of  his  meats, 
Not  even  Apicius,  nor,  I  think,  Lucullus, 

Wasted  on  tramps  his  culinary  sweets; 

"Aut  Casar"  say  judicious  hosts,  "  aut  nullus" 
And  though  when  Marcius  came  unbidden  Tullus 

Aufidius  feasted  him  because  he  starved, 

Marcius  by  Tullus  afterward  was  carved. 

We  feed  the  hungry,  as  the  book  commands 
(For  men  might  question  else  our  orthodoxy) 

But  do  not  care  to  see  the  outstretched  hands, 
And  so  we  minister  to  them  by  proxy. 
When  Want,  in  his  improper  person,  knocks  he 

Finds  we're  engaged.     The  graveworm's  very  fresh 

To  think  we  like  his  presence  in  the  flesh. 


162    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

So,  as  I  said,  I  lay  in  doubt;  in  all 
That  underworld  no  judges  could  determine 

My  rights.     When  Death  approaches  them  they  fall, 
And  falling,  naturally  soil  their  ermine. 
And  still  below  ground,  as  above,  the  vermin 

That  work  by  dark  and  silent  methods  win 

The  case — the  burial-case  that  one  is  in. 

Cases  at  law  so  slowly  get  ahead, 

Even  when  the  right  is  visibly  unclouded, 

That  if  all  men  are  classed  as  quick  and  dead, 
The  judges  all  are  dead,  though  some  unshrouded. 
Pray  Jove  that  when  they're  actually  crowded 

On  Styx's  brink,  and  Charon  rows  in  sight, 

His  bark  prove  worse  than  Cerberus's  bite. 

Ah!  Cerberus,  if  you  had  but  begot 

A  race  of  three-mouthed  dogs  for  man  to  nourish 

And  women  to  caress,  the  muse  had  not 
Lamented   the  decay  of  virtues  currish, 
And   triple-hydrophobia  now  would   flourish. 

For  barking,  biting,  kissing  to  employ 

Canine  repeaters  were  indeed  a  joy. 

Lord!  how  we  cling  to  this  vile  world!     Here  I, 

Whose  dust  was  laid  ere  I  began  this  carping, 
By  moles  and  worms  and  such  familiar  fry 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        163 

Run  through  and  through,  am  singing  still  and  harp 
ing 

Of  mundane  matters — flatting,  too,  and  sharping. 
I  hate  the  Angel  of  the  Sleeping-Cup: 
So  I'm  for  getting — and  for  shutting — up. 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Beauty  (they  called  her)  wasn't  a  maid 

Of  many  things  in  the  world  afraid. 

She  wasn't  a  maid  who  turned  and  fled 

At  sight  of  a  mouse,  alive  or  dead. 

She  wasn't  a  maid  a  man  could  "  shoo  " 

By  shouting,  however  abruptly,  "  Boo !  " 

She  wasn't  a  maid  who'd  run  and  hide 

If  her  face  and  figure  you  idly  eyed. 

She  wasn't  a  maid  who'd  blush  and  shake 

When  asked  what  part  of  the  fowl  she'd  take. 

(I  blush  myself  to  confess  she  preferred, 

And  commonly  got,  the  most  of  the  bird.) 

She  wasn't  a  maid  to  simper  because 

She  was  asked  to  sing — if  she  ever  was. 

In  short,  if  the  truth  must  be  displayed 

All  naked — Beauty  wasn't  a  maid. 


164    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Beauty,  furry  and  fine  and  fat, 
Yawny  and  clawy,  sleek  and  all  that, 
Was  a  pampered  and  spoiled  Angora  cat! 
I  loved  her  well,  and  I'm  proud  that  she 
Wasn't  indifferent,  quite,  to  me; 
In  fact  I  have  sometimes  gone  so  far 
(You  know,  mesdames,  how  silly  men  are) 
As  to  think  she  preferred — excuse  the  conceit — 
My  legs  upon  which  to  sharpen  her  feet. 
Perhaps  it  shouldn't  have  counted  for  much, 
But  I  started  and  thrilled  beneath  her  touch! 


Ah,  well,  that's  ancient  history  now: 

The  fingers  of  Time  have  touched  my  brow, 

And  I  hear  with  never  a  start  to-day 

That  Beauty  has  passed  from  the  earth  away. 

Gone! — her  death-song   (it  killed  her)   sung. 

Gone! — her  fiddlestrings  all  unstrung. 

Gone  to  the  bliss  of  a  new  regime 

Of  turkey  smothered  in  seas  of  cream; 

Of  roasted  mice  (a  superior  breed, 

To  science  unknown  and  the  coarser  need 

Of  the  living  cat)  cooked  by  the  flame 

Of  the  dainty  soul  of  an  erring  dame 

Who  had  given  to  purity  all  her  care, 

Neglecting  the  duty  of  daily  prayer, — 

Crisp,  delicate  mice,  just  touched  with  spice 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        165 

By  the  ghost  of  a  breeze  from  Paradise; 
A  very  digestible  sort  of  mice. 

Let  scoffers  sneer,  I  purpose  to  hold 

That  Beauty  has  mounted  the  Stair  of  Gold, 

To  eat  and  eat,  forever  and  aye, 

On  a  velvet  rug  from  a  golden  tray. 

But  the  human  spirit — that  is  my  creed — 

Rots  in  the  ground  like  a  barren  seed. 

That  is  my  creed,  abhorred  by  Man 

But  approved  by  Cat  since  time  began. 

Till  Death  shall  kick  at  me,  thundering  "Scat!" 

I  shall  hold  to  that,  I  shall  hold  to  that. 


THE  STATESMEN 

How  blest  the  land  that  counts  among 

Her  sons  so  many  good  and  wise, 
To  execute  great  feats  of  tongue 
When  troubles  rise. 

Behold  them  mounting  every  stump, 

By  speech  our  liberty  to  guard. 
Observe  their  courage — see  them  jump, 
And  come  down  hard! 


166    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Walk  up,  walk  up ! "  each  cries  aloud, 

"And  learn  from  me  what  you  must  do 
To  turn  aside  the  thunder  cloud, 
The  earthquake  too. 


"  Beware  the  wiles  of  yonder  quack 
Who  stuffs  the  ears  of  all  that  pass. 
I — I  alone  can  show  that  black 
Is  white  as  grass." 


They  shout  through  all  the  day  and  break 

The  silence  of  the  night  as  well. 
They'd  make — I  wish  they'd  go  and  make- 
Of  Heaven  a  Hell. 


A  advocates  free  silver,  B 

Free  trade  and  C  free  banking  laws. 
Free  board,  clothes,  lodging  would  from  me 
Win  warm  applause. 


La,  D  lifts  up  his  voice:  "You  see 
The  single  tax  on  land  would  fall 
On  all  alike."     More  evenly 
No  tax  at  all. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        167 

"With  paper  money,"  bellows  E, 

"  We'll  all  be  rich  as  lords."     No  doubt— 
And  richest  of  the  lot  will  be 
The  chap  without. 

As  many  "  cures  "  as  addle-wits 

Who  know  not  what  the  ailment  is ! 
Meanwhile  the  patient  foams  and  spits 
Like  a  gin  fizz. 

Alas,  poor  Body  Politic, 

Your  fate  is  all  too  clearly  read: 
To  be  not  altogether  quick, 
Nor  very  dead. 

You  take  your  exercise  in  squirms, 

Your  rest  in  fainting  fits  between. 
'Tis  plain  that  your  disorder's  worms — 
Worms  fat  and  lean. 

Worm  Capital,  Worm  Labor  dwell 

Within  your  maw  and  muscle's  scope. 
Their  quarrels  make  your  life  a  Hell, 
Your  death  a  hope. 

God  send  you  find  not  such  an  end 
To  ills  however  sharp  and  huge! 


168    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

God  send  you  convalesce!     God  send 
You  vermifuge. 


BROTHERS 

SCENE — A  lawyer's  dreadful  den. 
Enter  stall-fed  citizen. 

LAWYER. — Mornin'.     How-de-do  ? 

CITIZEN.     Sir,  same  to  you. 
Called  as  counsel  to  retain  you 
In  a  case  that  I'll  explain  you. 
Sad,  so  sad!     Heart  almost  broke. 
Hang  it!  where's  my  kerchief?     Smoke? 
Brother,  sir,  and  I,  of  late, 
Came  into  a  large  estate. 
Brother's — h'm,  ha, — rather  queer 
Sometimes  [tapping  forehead]  here. 
What  he  needs — you  know — a  "  writ  " — 
Something,  eh?  that  will  permit 
Me  to  manage,  sir,  in  fine, 
His  estate,  as  well  as  mine. 
Of  course  he'll  storm;  'twill  break,  I  fear, 
His  loving  heart — excuse  this  tear. 

LAWYER. — Have  you  nothing  more? 
All  of  this  you  said  before — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        169 

When  last  night  I  took  your  case. 

CITIZEN. — Why,  sir,  your  face 
Ne'er  before  has  met  my  view! 

LAWYER.— Eh?    The  devil!    True: 
My  mistake — it  was  your  brother. 
But  you're  very  like  each  other. 


THE   CYNIC'S   BEQUEST 

In  that  fair  city,  Ispahan, 

There  dwelt  a  problematic  man, 

Whose  angel  never  was  released, 

Who  never  once  let  out  his  beast, 

But  kept,  through  all  the  seasons'  round, 

Silence  unbroken  and  profound. 

No  Prophecy,  with  ear  applied 

To  key-hole  of  the  future,  tried 

Successfully  to  catch  a  hint 

Of  what  he'd  do  nor  when  begin't; 

As  sternly  did  his  past  defy 

Mild  Retrospection's  backward  eye. 

Though  all  admired  his  silent  ways, 

The  women  loudest  were  in  praise: 

For  ladies  love  those  men  the  most 

Who  never,  never,  never  boast — 


170    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Who  ne'er  disclose  their  aims  and  ends 
To  naughty,  naughty,  naughty  friends. 

Yet,  sooth  to  say,  the  fame  outran 

The  merit  of  this  doubtful  man, 

For  taciturnity  in  him, 

Though  not  a  mere  caprice  nor  whim, 

Was  not  a  virtue,  such  as  truth, 

High  birth,  or  beauty,  wealth  or  youth. 

'Twas  known,  indeed,  throughout  the  span 

Of  Ispahan,  of  Gulistan — 

These  utmost  limits  of  the  earth 

Knew  that  the  man  was  dumb  from  birth. 

Unto  the  Sun  with  deep  salaams 

The  Parsee  spreads  his  morning  palms 

(A  beacon  blazing  on  a  height 

Warms  o'er  his  piety  by  night.) 

The  Moslem  deprecates  the  deed, 

Cuts  off  the  head  that  holds  the  creed, 

Then  reverently  goes  to  grass, 

Muttering  thanks  to  Balaam's  Ass 

For  faith  and  learning  to  refute 

Idolatry  so  dissolute! 

But  should  a  maniac  dash  past, 

With  straws  in  beard  and  hands  upcast, 

To  him  (through  whom,  whene'er  inclined 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        171 

To  preach  a  bit  to  Madmankind, 
The  Holy  Prophet  speaks  his  mind) 
Our  True  Believer  lifts  his  eyes 
Devoutly  and  his  prayer  applies; 
But  next  to  Solyman  the  Great 
Reveres  the  idiot's  sacred  state. 
Small  wonder  then,  our  worthy  mute 
Was   held   in   popular   repute. 
Had  he  been  blind  as  well  as  mum, 
Been  lame  as  well  as  blind  and  dumb, 
No  bard  that  ever  sang  or  soared 
Could  say  how  he  had  been  adored. 
More  meagerly  endowed,  he  drew 
An  homage  less  prodigious.     True, 
No  soul  his  praises  but  did  utter — 
All  plied  him  with  devotion's  butter, 
But  none  had  out — 'twas  to  their  credit — 
The  proselyting  sword  to  spread  it. 
I  state  these  truths,  exactly  why 
The  reader  knows  as  well  as  I; 
They've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 
With  what  I  hope  we're  coming  to 
If  Pegasus  be  good  enough 
To  move  when  he  has  stood  enough. 
Egad!  his  ribs  I  would  examine 
Had  I  a  sharper  spur  than  famine, 
Or  even  with  that  if  'twould  incline 


172    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

To  examine  his  instead  of  mine. 
Where  was  I?    Ah,  that  silent  man 
Who  dwelt  one  time  in  Ispahan. 
He  had  a  name — was  known  to  all 
As  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall. 

There  lived  afar  in  Astrabad, 
A  man  the  world  agreed  was  mad, 
So  wickedly  he  broke  his  joke 
Upon  the  heads  of  duller  folk, 
So  miserly,  from  day  to  day, 
He  gathered  up  and  hid  away 
In  vaults  obscure  and  cellars  haunted 
What  many  worthy  people  wanted. 
A  stingy  man! — the  tradesmen's  palms 
Were  spread  in  vain :     "  I  give  no  alms 
Without  inquiry" — so  he'd  say, 
And  beat  the  needy  duns  away. 
The  bastinado  did,  'tis  true, 
Persuade  him,  now  and  then,  a  few- 
Odd  tens  of  thousands  to  disburse 
To  glut  the  taxman's  hungry  purse, 
But  still,  so  rich  he  grew,  his  fear 
Was  constant  that  the  Shah  might  hear. 
(The  Shah  had  heard  it  long  ago, 
And  asked  the  taxman  if  'twere  so, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        173 

Who  promptly  answered,  rather  airish, 
The  man  had  long  been  on  the  parish.) 
The  more  he  feared,  the  more  he  grew 
A  cynic  and  a  miser,  too, 
Until  his  bitterness  and  pelf 
Made  him  a  terror  to  himself; 
Then,  with  a  razor's  neckwise  stroke, 
He  tartly  cut  his  final  joke. 
So  perished,  not  an  hour  too  soon, 
The  wicked  Muley  Ben  Maroon. 

From  Astrabad  to  Ispahan 

At  camel-speed  the  rumor  ran 

That,  breaking  through  tradition  hoar, 

And  throwing  all  his  kinsmen  o'er, 

The  miser'd  left  his  mighty  store 

Of  gold — his  palaces  and  lands — 

To  needy  and  deserving  hands 

(Except  a  penny  here  and  there 

To  pay  the  dervishes  for  prayer.) 

'Twas  known  indeed  throughout  the  span 

Of  earth,  and  into  Hindustan 

That  our  beloved  mute  was  the 

Residuary  legatee. 

The  people  said  'twas  very  well, 

And  each  man  had  a  tale  to  tell 


174    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Of  how  he'd  had  a  finger  in't 

By  dropping  many  a  friendly  hint 

At  Astrabad,  you  see.     But  ah, 

They  feared  the  news  would  reach  the  Shah! 

To  prove  the  will,  the  lawyers  bore't 

Before  the  Kadi's  awful  court, 

Who  nodded,  when  he  heard  it  read, 

Confirmingly,  his  drowsy  head, 

Nor  thought,  his  sleepiness  so  great, 

Himself  to  gobble  the  estate. 

"  I  give,"  the  dead  had  writ,  "  my  all 

To  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall 

Of  Ispahan.     With  this  estate 

I  might  quite  easily  create 

Ten  thousand  ingrates,  but  I  shun 

Temptation  and  create  but  one, 

In  whom  the  whole  unthankful  crew 

The  rich  man's  air  that  ever  drew 

To  fat  their  pauper  lungs  I  fire 

With  vain  vicarious  desire! 

From  foul  Ingratitude's  base  rout 

I  pick  this  hapless  devil  out, 

Bestowing  on  him  all  my  lands, 

My  treasures,  camels,  slaves  and  bands 

Of  wives — I  give  him  all  this  loot, 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        175 

And  throw  my  blessing  in  to  boot. 
Behold,  all  men^  in  this  bequest 
Philanthropy's  long  wrongs  redressed: 
To  speak  me  ill  that  man  I  dower 
With  fiercest  will  who  lacks  the  power. 
Allah  il  Allah!  now  let  him  bloat 
With  rancor  till  his  heart's  afloat, 
Unable  to  discharge  the  wave 
Upon  his  benefactor's  grave ! " 

Forth  in  their  wrath  the  people  came 

And  swore  it  was  a  sin  and  shame 

To  trick  their  blessed  mute;  and  each 

Protested,  serious  of  speech, 

That  though  he'd  long  foreseen  the  worst 

He'd  been  against  it  from  the  first. 

By  many  means  they  vainly  tried 

The  testament  to  set  aside, 

Each  ready  with  his  empty  purse 

To  take  upon  himself  the  curse; 

For  they  had  powers  of  invective 

Enough  to  make  it  ineffective. 

The  ingrates  mustered,  every  man, 

And  marched  in  force  to  Ispahan 

(Which  had  not  quite  accommodation) 

And  held  a  camp  of  indignation. 


176    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  man,  this  while,  who  never  spoke — 

On  whom  had  fallen  this  thunder-stroke 

Of  fortune,  gave  no  feeling  vent, 

Nor  dropped  a  hint  of  his  intent. 

Whereas  no  power  to  him  came 

His  benefactor  to  defame, 

Some  (such  a  length  had  slander  gone  to) 

Even  whispered  that  he  didn't  want  to! 

But  none  his  secret  could  divine; 

If  suffering  he  made  no  sign 

Until  one  night  as  winter  neared 

From  all  his  haunts  he  disappeared — 

Evanished  in  a  doubtful  blank 

Like  little  crayfish  in  a  bank, 

Their  heads  retracting  when  you  find  'em, 

And  pulling  in  their  holes  behind  'em. 


All  through  the  land  of  Gul,  the  stout 
Young  Spring  is  kicking  Winter  out. 
The  grass  sneaks  in  upon  the  scene, 
Defacing  it  with  bottle-green. 
The  stumbling  lamb  arrives  to  ply 
His  restless  tail  in  every  eye, 
Eats  nasty  mint  to  spoil  his  meat 
And  make  himself  unfit  to  eat. 
His  noisy  throat  the  bulbul  tears — 
In  every  grove  blasphemes  and  swears 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        177 

As  the  immodest  rose  displays 
Her  shameless  charms  a  dozen  ways. 
Lo !  now,  throughout  the  utmost  span 
Of  Ispahan — of  Gulistan — 
A  big  new  book's  displayed  in  all 
The  shops  and  cumbers  every  stall. 
The  price  is  low — the  dealers  say  'tis — 
And  the  rich  are  treated  to  it  gratis. 
Engraven  on  its  foremost  page 
These  title-words  the  eye  engage: 
"The  Life  of  Muley  Ben  Maroon, 
Of  Astrabad — Rogue,  Thief,  Buffoon 
And  Miser — Liver  by  the  Sweat 
Of  Better  Men:  A  Lamponette 
Composed  in  Rhyme  and  Written  All 
By  Meerza  Solyman  Zingall ! " 


CORRECTED  NEWS 

'Twas  a  maiden  lady,  the  newspapers  say, 
Pious  and  prim  and  a  bit  gone-gray. 
She  slept  like  an  angel,  holy  and  white, 
Till  ten  o'clock  in  the  shank  o'  the  night, 
When  men  and  other  wild  animals  prey, 
And  then  she  cried  in  the  viewless  gloom: 
"  There's  a  man  in  the  room,  a  man  in  the  room !  " 


178    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

And  this  maiden  lady,  they  make  it  appear, 
Leapt  out  of  the  window,  five  fathom  sheer! 

Alas,  that  lying  is  such  a  sin 

When  newspaper  men  need  bread  and  gin 

And  none  can  be  had  for  less  than  a  lie! 
For  the  maiden  lady  a  bit  gone-gray 
Saw  the  man  in  the  room  from  across  the  way, 
And  leapt,  not  out  of  the  window  but  in — 

Ten  fathoms  sheer,  as  I  hope  to  die! 


Of  a  person  known  as  Peters  I  will  humbly  crave  your 

leave 

An  unusual  adventure  into  narrative  to  weave — 
Mr.  William  Perry  Peters,  of  the  town  of  Muscatel, 
A  public  educator  and  an  orator  as  well. 
Mr.  Peters  had  a  weakness  which,  'tis  painful  to  relate, 
Was  a  strong  predisposition  to  the  pleasures  of  debate. 
He  would  foster  disputation  wheresoever  he  might  be ; 
In  polygonal  contention  none  so  happy  was  as  he. 
'Twas  observable,  however,  that  the  exercises  ran 
Into  monologue  by  Peters,  that  rhetorical  young  man. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        179 

And  she  Muscatelian  rustics  who  assisted  at  the  show, 
By  involuntary  silence  testified  their  overthrow — 
Mr.    Peters,   all   unheedful   of  their  silence  and  their 

grief, 

Still  effacing  every  vestige  of  erroneous  belief. 
O,  he  was  a  sore  affliction  to  all  heretics  so  bold 
As  to  entertain  opinions  that  he  didn't  care  to  hold. 

One  day — 'twas  in  pursuance  of  a  pedagogic  plan 
For  the  mental  elevation  of  Uncultivated  Man — 
Mr.  Peters,  to  his  pupils,  in  dismissing  them,  explained 
That  the  Friday  evening  following   (unless,   indeed,   it 

rained) 
Would  be  signalized   by  holdings  in  the  schoolhouse  a 

debate 

Free  to  all  who  their  opinions  might  desire  to  venti 
late 

On  the  question,  "Which  is  better,  as  a  serviceable  gift, 
Speech  or  hearing,   from  barbarity  the  human  mind  to 

lift?" 
The  pupils  told  their  fathers,  who,  forehanded  always, 

met 

At  the  barroom  to  discuss  it  every  evening,  dry  or  wet. 
They  argued  it  and  argued  it  and  spat  upon  the  stove, 
And    the    non-committal    barman    on    their    differences 

throve. 
And  I  state  it  as  a  maxim  in  a  loosish  kind  of  way: 


180    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

You'll  have  the  more  to  back  your  word  the  less  you 

have  to  say. 

Public  interest  was  lively,  but  one  Ebenezer  Fink 
Of  the  Rancho  del  Jackrabbit,  only  seemed  to  sit  and 

think. 


On  the  memorable  evening  all  the  men  of  Muscatel 
Came  to  listen  to  the  logic  and  the  eloquence  as  well — 
All  but  William  Perry  Peters,  whose  attendance  there, 

I  fear, 

Was  to  wreak  his  ready  rhetoric  upon  the  public  ear, 
And    prove    (whichever    side    he    took)     that    hearing 

wouldn't  lift 

The  human  mind  as  ably  as  the  other,  greater  gift. 
The  judges  being  chosen  and  the  disputants  enrolled, 
The  question  he  proceeded  in  extenso  to  unfold: 
"  Resolved — The  sense  of  hearing  lifts  the  mind  up  out 

of  reach 

Of  the  fogs  of  error  better  than  the  faculty  of  speech." 
This  simple  proposition  he  expounded,  word  by  word, 
Till  they   best  understood   it  who  least  perfectly  had 

heard. 

Even  the  judges  comprehended  what  he  ventured  to  ex 
plain — 

The  impact  of  a  spit-ball  admonishing  In  vain. 
Beginning  at  a  period  before  Creation's  morn, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        181 

He  had  reached  the  bounds  of  tolerance  and  Adam  yet 
unborn. 

As  down  the  early  centuries  of  pre-historic  time 

He  tracked  important  principles  and  quoted  striking 
rhyme, 

And  Whisky  Bill,  prosaic  soul!  proclaiming  him  a  jay, 

Had  risen  and  like  an  earthquake,  "  reeled  unheededly 
away," 

And  a  late  lamented  cat,  when  opportunity  should 
serve, 

Was  preparing  to  embark  upon  her  parabolic  curve, 

A  noise  arose  outside — the  door  was  opened  with  a 
bang, 

And  old  Ebenezer  Fink  was  heard  ejaculating 
"G'lang!" 

Straight  into  that  assembly  gravely  marched  without  a 
wink 

An  ancient  ass — the  property  it  was  of  Mr.  Fink. 

Its  ears  depressed  and  beating  time  to  its  infestive 
tread, 

Silent  through  silence,  moved  amain  that  stately  quad 
ruped! 

It  stopped  before  the  orator,  and  in  the  lamplight  thrown 

Upon  its  tail  they  saw  that  member  weighted  with  a 
stone. 

Then  spake  old  Ebenezer:  "Gents,  I  heern  o*  this  de 
bate 


182    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

On  w'ether  v'ice  or  y'ears  is  best  the  mind  to  elevate. 
Now  'yer>s  a  bird  ken  throw  some  light  uponto  that 

tough  theme: 

He  has  'em  both,  I'm  free  to  say,  oncommonly  extreme. 
He  wa'n't  invited  for  to  speak,  but  he  will  not  refuse 
(If  t'other  gentleman  ken  wait)  to  exposay  his  views." 

Ere  merriment  or  anger  o'er  amazement  could  prevail, 
He  cut  the  string  that  held  the  stone  on  that  canary's 

tail. 
Freed  from  the  weight,  that  member  made  a  gesture  of 

delight, 

Then  rose  until  its  rigid  length  was  horizontal  quite. 
With  lifted  head  and  level  ears  along  his  withers  laid, 
Jack  sighed,  refilled  his  lungs  and  then — to  put  it  mildly 

— brayed ! 
He  brayed  until  the  stones  were  stirred  in  circumjacent 

hills, 
And  sleeping  women  rose  and  fled,  in  divers  kinds  of 

frills. 
'Tis   said    that    awful    bugle-blast — to   make    the   story 

brief- 
Wafted  William  Perry  Peters  through  the  window,  like 

a  leaf! 

Such  is  the  tale.     If  anything  additional  occurred 
*Tis  not  set  down,  though,  truly,  I  remember  to  have 
heard 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        183 

That  a  gentleman  named  Peters,  now  residing  at  Sequel, 
A  considerable  distance  from  the  town  of  Muscatel, 
Is  opposed  to  education,  and  to  rhetoric,  as  well. 


TO   MY   LAUNDRESS 

Saponacea,  wert  thou  not  so  fair 

I'd  curse  thee  for  thy  multitude  of  sins — 
For  sending  home  my  clothes  all  full  of  pins, 

A  shirt  occasionally  that's  a  snare 

And  a  delusion,  got,  the  Lord  knows  where, 
The  Lord  knows  why,  a  sock  whose  outs  and  ins 
None  know,  nor  where  it  ends  nor  where  begins, 

And  fewer  cuffs  than  ought  to  be  my  share. 

But  when  I  mark  thy  lilies  how  they  grow, 
And  the  red  roses  of  thy  ripening  charms, 

I  bless  the  lovelight  in  thy  dark  eyes  dreaming. 

I'll  never  pay  thee,  but  I'd  gladly  go 
Into  the  magic  circle  of  thine  arms, 

Supple  and  fragrant  from  repeated  steaming. 


184    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

FAME 

One  thousand  years  I  slept  beneath  the  sod, 

My  sleep  in  1901  beginning, 
Then,  by  the  action  of  some  scurvy  god 

Who  happened  then  to  recollect  my  sinning, 

I  was  revived  and  given  another  inning. 
On  breaking  from  my  grave  I  saw  a  crowd — 

A  formless  multitude  of  men  and  women, 
Gathered  about  a  ruin.     Clamors  loud 

I  heard,  and  curses  deep  enough  to  swim  in; 

And,  pointing  at  me,  one  said :  "  Let's  put  htm  in !  " 
Then  each  turned  on  me  with  an  evil  look, 
As  in  my  ragged  shroud  I  stood  and  shook. 

"Nay,  good  Posterity,"  I  cried,  "forbear! 
If  that's  a  jail  I  fain  would  be  remaining 

Outside,  for  truly  I  should  little  care 

To  catch  my  death  of  cold.     I'm  just  regaining 
The  life  lost  long  ago  by  my  disdaining 

To  take  precautions  against  draughts  like  those 
That,  haply,  penetrate  that  cracked  and  splitting 

Old  structure."     Then  an  aged  wight  arose 

From  a  chair  of  state  in  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
And  with  preliminary  coughing,  spitting 

And  wheezing,  said :     "  'Tis  not  a  jail,  we're  sure, 

Whate'er  it  may  have  been  when  it  was  newer. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        185 

'  'Twas  found  two  centuries  ago,  o'ergrown 

With  brush  and  ivy,  all  undoored,  ungated; 
And  in  restoring  it  we  found  a  stone 
Set  here  and  there  in  the  dilapidated 
And  crumbling  frieze,  inscribed,  in  antiquated 

Big  characters,  with  certain  uncouth  names, 
Which  we  conclude  were  borne  of  old  by  awful 

Rapscallions  guilty  of  all  sinful  games — 
Vagrants  engaged  in  practices  unlawful, 
And  orators  less  sensible  than  jawful. 

So  each  ten  years  we  add  to  the  long  row 

A  name,  the  most  unworthy  that  we  know." 

"  But  why,"  I  asked,  "  put  mine  in?  "     He  replied/ 

"You  look  it" — and  the  judgment  pained  me  greatly; 
Right  gladly  would  I  then  and  there  have  died, 

But  that  I'd  risen  from  the  grave  so  lately. 

But  on  examining  that  solemn,  stately 
Old  ruin  I  remarked :   "  My  friends,  you  err — 

The  truth  of  this  is  just  what  I  expected. 
This  building  in  its  time  made  quite  a  stir. 

I  lived  (was  famous,  too)  when  'twas  erected. 

The  names  here  first  inscribed  were  much  respected. 
This  is  the  Hall  of  Fame,  or  I'm  a  stork, 
And  this  goat-pasture  once  was  called  New  York." 


186    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


OMNES  VANITAS 

Alas  for  ambition's  possessor! 

Alas  for  the  famous  and  proud! 
The  Isle  of  Manhattan's  best  dresser 

Is  wearing  a  hand-me-down  shroud. 

The  world  has  forgotten  his  glory; 
The  wagoner  sings  on  his  wain, 
And  Chauncey  Depew  tells  a  story, 
And  jackasses  laugh  in  the  lane. 


CONSOLATION 

Little's  the  good  to  sit  and  grieve 
Because  the  serpent  tempted  Eve. 
Better  to  wipe  your  eyes  and  take 
A  club  and  go  out  and  kill  a  snake. 

But  if  you  prefer,  as  I  suspect, 

To  philosophize,  why,  then,  reflect: 

If  the  cunning  rascal  upon  the  limb 

Hadn't  tempted  her  she'd  have  tempted  him. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        187 

FATE 

Alas,  alas,  for  the  tourist's  guide! — 
He  turned  from  the  beaten  trail  aside, 
Wandered  bewildered,  lay  down  and  died. 

O  grim  is  the  Irony  of  Fate: 
It  switches  the  man  of  low  estate 
And  loosens  the  dogs  upon  the  great. 

It  lights  the  fireman  to  roast  the  cook; 
The  fisherman  writhes  upon  the  hook, 
And  the  flirt  is  slain  with  a  tender  look. 

The  undertaker  it  overtakes; 

It  saddles  the  cavalier,  and  makes 

The  haughtiest  butcher  into  steaks. 

Assist  me,  gods,  to  balk  the  decree! 
Nothing  I'll  do  and  nothing  I'll  be, 
In  order  that  nothing  be  done  to  me. 

PHILOSOPHER  BIMM 

Republicans  think  Jonas  Bimm 

A  Democrat  gone  mad, 
And  Democrats  consider  him 

Republican  and  bad. 


188    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

The  Lout  reviles  him  as  a  Dude 
And  gives  it  him  right  hot; 

The  Dude  condemns  his  crassitude 
And  calls  him  sans-culottes. 

Derided  as  an  Anglophile 
By  Anglophobes,  forsooth, 

As  Anglophobe  he  feels,  the  while, 
The  Anglophilia  tooth. 

The  Churchman  calls  him  Atheist; 

The  Atheists,  rough-shod, 
Have  ridden  o'er  him  long  and  hissed: 

"The  wretch  believes  in  Go'd!" 

The  Saints  whom  clergymen  we  call 
Would  kill  him  if  they  could; 

The  Sinners  (scientists  and  all) 
Complain  that  he  is  good. 

All  men  deplore  the  difference 
Between  themselves  and  him, 

And  all  devise  expedients 
For  paining  Jonas  Bimm. 

I  too,  with  wild  demoniac  glee, 
Would  put  out  both  his  eyes; 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        189 

For  Mr.  Bimm  appears  to  me 
Insufferably  wise! 


REMINDED 

Beneath  my  window  twilight  made 
Familiar  mysteries  of  shade. 
Faint  voices  from  the  darkening  down 
Were  calling  vaguely  to  the  town. 

Intent  upon  a  low,  far  gleam 

That  burned  upon  the  world's  extreme, 

I  sat,  with  short  -reprieve  from  grief, 

And  turned  the  volume,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Wherein  a  hand  long  dead  had  wrought 

A  million  miracles  of  thought. 

My  ringers  carelessly  unclung 

The  lettered  pages,  and  among 

Them  wandered  witless,  nor  divined 

The  wealth  in  which,  poor  fools,  they  mined. 

The  soul  that  should  have  led  their  quest 

Was  dreaming  in  the  level  west, 

Where  a  tall  tower,  stark  and  still, 

Uplifted  on  a  distant  hill, 

Stood  lone  and  passionless  to  claim 

Its  guardian  star's  returning  flame. 


190    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

I  know  not  how  my  dream  was  broke, 

But  suddenly  my  spirit  woke 

Filled  with  a  foolish  fear  to  look 

Upon  the  hand  that  clove  the  book, 

Significantly  pointing;  next 

I  bent  attentive  to  the  text, 

And  read — and  as  I  read  grew  old — 

The  mindless  words :     "  Poor  Tom's  a-cold !  " 


Ah  me!  to  what  a  subtle  touch 
The  brimming  cup  resigns  its  clutch 
Upon  the  wine.    Dear  God,  is't  writ 
That  hearts  their  overburden  bear 
Of  bitterness  though  thou  permit 
The  pranks  of  Chance,  alurk  in  nooks, 
And  striking  coward  blows  from  books, 
And  dead  hands  reaching  everywhere? 


SALVINI    IN   AMERICA 

Come,  gentlemen — your  gold. 

Thanks;  welcome  to  the  show, 
To  hear  a  story  told 

In  words  you  do  not  know. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        191 

Now,  great  Salvlni,  rise 

And  thunder  through  your  tears! 

Aha!  friends,  let  your  eyes 
Interpret  to  your  ears. 

Gods!  'tis  a  goodly  game. 

Observe  his  stride — how  grand! 
When  legs  like  his  declaim 

Who  can  misunderstand? 

See  how  that  arm  goes  round. 

It  says,  as  plain  as  day: 
"  I  love,"  "  The  lost  is  found," 

"Well  met,  sir,"  or,  "Away!" 

And  mark  the  drawing  down 

Of  brows.     How  accurate 
The  language  of  that  frown: 

Pain,  gentlemen — or  hate. 

Those  of  the  critic  trade 

Swear  it  is  all  as  clear 
As  if  his  tongue  were  made 

To  fit  an  English  ear. 

Hear  that  Italian  phrase! 
Greek  to  your  sense,  'tis  true; 


192    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

But  shrug,  expression,  gaze — 
Well,  they  are  Grecian  too. 


But  it  is  Art!     God  wot 
Art's  tongue  to  all  is  known. 

Faith!  he  to  whom  'twere  not 
Would  better  hold  his  own. 

Shakespeare  says  act  and  word 
Should  match  together  true. 

For  what  you've  seen  and  heard, 
How  can  you  doubt  they  do? 

Enchanting  drama!     Mark 

The  crowd  "  from  pit  to  dome  " ; 

One  box  alone  is  dark — 

The  prompter  stays  at  home. 

Stupendous  artist!    You 
Are  lord  of  joy  and  woe: 

We  thrill  if  you  say  "  Boo," 
And  thrill  if  you  say  "  Bo." 


ANOTHER  WAY 

I  lay  in  silence,  dead.    A  woman  came 
And  laid  a  rose  upon  my  breast  and  said: 

"  May  God  be  merciful."    She  spoke  my  name, 
And  added :    "  It  is  strange  to  think  him  dead. 

"  He  loved  me  well  enough,  but  'twas  his  way 
To  speak  it  lightly."     Then,  beneath  her  breath: 

"  Besides  " — I  knew  what  further  she  would  say, 
But  then  a  footfall  broke  my  dream  of  death. 

To-day  the  words  are  mine.     I  lay  the  rose 

Upon  her  breast,  and  speak  her  name,  and  deem 

It  strange  indeed  that  she  is  dead.     God  knows 
I  had  more  pleasure  in  the  other  dream. 


ART 

For  Gladstone's  portrait  five  thousand  pounds 
Were  paid,  'tis  said,  to  Sir  John  Millais. 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  such  fine  pay 

Transcended  reason's  uttermost  bounds. 


194    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

For  it  seems  to  me  uncommonly  queer 
That  a  painted  British  statesman's  price 
Exceeds  the  established  value  thrice 

Of  a  living  statesman  over  here. 


When  at  your  window  radiant  you've  stood 
I've  sometimes  felt — forgive  me  if  I  erred — 
That  some  slight  thought  of  me  perhaps  has  stirred 

Your  heart  to  beat  less  gently  than  it  should. 

I  know  you  beautiful ;  that  you  are  good 
I  hope — or  fear — I  cannot  choose  the  word, 
Nor  rightly  suit  it  to  the  thought.     I've  heard 

Reason  at  love's  dictation  never  could. 

Blindly  to  this  dilemma  so  I  grope, 

As  one  whose  every  pathway  has  a  snare: 
If  you  are  minded  in  the  saintly  fashion 

Of  your  pure  face  my  passion's  without  hope; 
If  not,  alas!     I  equally  despair, 
For  what  to  me  were  hope  without  the  passion? 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        195 


TO   A    DEBTOR   ABROAD 

Grief  for  an  absent  lover,  husband,  friend, 
Is  barely  felt  before  it  comes  to  end : 
A  score  of  early  consolations  serve 
To  modify  its  mouth's  dejected  curve; 
But  woes  of  creditors  when  debtors  flee 
Forever  swell  the  separating  sea. 
When  standing  on  an  alien  shore  you  mark 
The  steady  course  of  some  intrepid  bark, 
How  sweet  to  think  a  tear  for  you  abides, 
Not  all  unuseful,  in  the  wave  she  rides! — 
That  sighs  for  you  commingle  in  the  gale 
Beneficently  bellying  her  sail! 


GENESIS 

God  said :  "  Let  there  be  Man,"  and  from  the  clay 

Adam  came  forth  and,  thoughtful,  walked  away. 

The  matrix  whence  his  body  was  obtained, 

An  empty,  man-shaped  cavity,  remained 

All  unregarded  from  that  early  time 

Till  in  a  recent  storm  it  filled  with  slime. 

Now  Satan,  envying  the  Master's  power 

To  make  the  meat  himself  could  but  devour, 


196    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Strolled  to  the  place  and,  standing  by  the  pool, 
Exerted  all  his  will  to  make  a  fool. 
A  miracle ! — from  out  that  ancient  hole 
Rose  Doxey,  lacking  nothing  but  a  soul. 
"  To  give  him  that  I've  not  the  power  divine," 
Said  Satan,  sadly,  "  but  I'll  lend  him  mine." 
He  breathed  it  into  him,  a  vapor  black, 
And  to  this  day  has  never  got  it  back. 


LIBERTY 

"'Let  there  be  Liberty!'  God  said,  and  lo! 
The  skies  were  red  and  luminous.     The  glow 

Struck  first  Columbia's  kindling  mountain  peaks 
One  hundred  and  eleven  years  ago ! " 

So  sang  a  patriot  whom  once  I  saw 
Descending  Bunker's  holy  hill.    With  awe 
I  noted  that  he  shone  with  sacred  light, 
Like  Moses  with  the  tables  of  the  Law. 

One  hundred  and  eleven  years?    O  small 
And  paltry  period  compared  with  all 

The  tide  of  centuries  that  flowed  and  ebbed 
To  etch  Yosemite's  divided  wall! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        197 

Ah,  Liberty,  they  sing  you  always  young 
Whose  harps  are  in  your  adoration  strung. 

(Each  swears  you  are  his  countrywoman,  too, 
And  speak  no  language  but  his  mother  tongue.) 

And  truly,  lass,  although  with  shout  and  horn 
Man  has  all-hailed  you  from  creation's  morn 

I  cannot  think  you  old — I  think,  indeed, 
You  are  by  twenty  centuries  unborn. 


THE   PASSING   OF   SHEPHERD 

The  sullen  church-bell's  intermittent  moan, 

The  dirge's  melancholy  monotone, 

The  measured  march,  the  drooping  flags,  attest 

A  great  man's  progress  to  his  place  of  rest. 

Along  broad  avenues  himself  decreed 

To  serve  his  fellow  men's  disputed  need — 

Past  parks  he  raped  away  from  robbers'  thrift 

And  gave  to  poverty,  wherein  to  lift 

Its  voice  to  curse  the  giver  and  the  gift — 

Past  noble  structures  that  he  reared  for  men 

To  meet  in  and  revile  him,  tongue  and  pen, 

Draws  the  long  retinue  of  death  to  show 

The  fit  credentials  of  a  proper  woe. 


198    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Boss  "  Shepherd,  you  are  dead.    Your  hand  no 

more 

Throws  largess  to  the  mobs  that  ramp  and  roar 
For  blood  of  benefactors  who  disdain 
Their  purity  of  purpose  to  explain, 
Their  righteous  motive  and  their  scorn  of  gain. 
Your  period  of  dream — 'twas  but  a  breath — 
Is  closed  in  the  indifference  of  death. 
Sealed  in  your  silences,  to  you  alike 
If  hands  are  lifted  to  applaud  or  strike, 
No  more  to  your  dull,  inattentive  ear 
Praise  of  to-day  than  curse  of  yesteryear. 
From  the  same  lips  the  honied  phrases  fall 
That  still  are  bitter  from  cascades  of  gall. 
We  note  the  shame;  you  in  your  depth  of  dark 
The  red-writ  testimony  cannot  mark 
On  every  honest  cheek;  your  senses  all 
Locked,  incomunicado,  in  your  pall, 
Know  not  who  sit  and  blush,  who  stand  and  bawl. 

"  Seven  Grecian  cities  claim  great  Homer  dead, 
Through   which    the   living    Homer   begged   his 

bread." 

"Neglected  genius!" — that  is  sad  indeed, 
But  malice  better  would   ignore  than  heed, 
And  Shepherd's  soul,  we  rightly  may  suspect, 
Prayed  often  for  the  mercy  of  neglect 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        199 

When  hardly  did  he  dare  to  leave  his  door 
Without  a  guard  behind  him  and  before 
To  save  him  from  the  gentlemen  that  now 
In  cheap  and  easy  reparation  bow 
Heads  hypocritical  above  his  corse 
To  counterfeit  a  grief  that's  half  remorse. 


The  pageant  passes  and  the  exile  sleeps, 
And  well  his  silent  tongue  the  secret  keeps 
Of  the  great  peace  he  found  afar,  until, 
Death's  writ  of  extradition  to  fulfill, 
They  brought  him  helpless,  from  that  friendly 

zone 

To  be  a  show  and  pastime  in  his  own — 
A  final  opportunity  to  those 
Who  fling  with  equal  aim  the  stone  and  rose ; 
That  at  the  living  till  his  soul  is  freed, 
This  at  the  body  to  conceal  the  deed! 


Lone  on  his  hill  he's  lying  to  await 
What  added  honors  may  befit  his  state — 
The  monument,  the  statue,  or  the  arch 
(Where  knaves  may  come  to  weep  and  dupes  to 

march ) 

Builded  by  clowns  to  brutalize  the  scenes 
His  genius  beautified.    To  get  the  means, 


200    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

His  newly  good  traducers  all  are  dunned 
For  contributions  to  the  conscience  fund. 
If  each  subscribe  (and  pay)  one  cent  'twill  rear 
A  structure  taller  than  their  tallest  ear. 
1903. 


TO   MAUDE 

Not  as  two  errant  spheres  together  grind 
With  monstrous  ruin  in  the  vast  of  space, 
Destruction  born  of  that  malign  embrace, 

Their  hapless  peoples  all  to  'death  consigned — 

Not  so  when  our  intangible  worlds  of  mind, 
Even  mine  and  yours,  each  with  its  spirit  race, 
Of  beings  shadowy  in  form  and  face, 

Shall  drift  together  on  some  blessed  wind. 

No,  in  that  marriage  of  gloom  and  light 
All  miracles  of  beauty  shall  be  wrought, 
Attesting  a  diviner  faith  than  man's; 

For  all  my  sad-eyed  daughters  of  the  night 
Shall  smile  on  your  sweet  seraphim  of  thought, 
Nor  any  jealous  god  forbid  the  banns. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        201 


THE  BIRTH  OF  VIRTUE 

When,  long  ago,  the  young  world  circling  flew 
Through  wider  reaches  of  a  richer  blue, 
New-eyed,  the  men  and  maids  saw,  manifest, 
The  thoughts  untold  in  one  another's  breast — 
Each  wish  displayed,  and  every  passion  learned; 
A  look  revealed  them  as  a  look  discerned. 
But  sating  Time  with  clouds  o'ercast  their  eyes; 
Desire  was  hidden,  and  the  lips  framed  lies. 
A  goddess  then,  emerging  from  the  dust, 
Fair  Virtue  rose,  the  daughter  of  Distrust. 


THE  SCURRIL  PRESS 

TOM  JONESMITH   (loquitur) :  I've  slept  right  through 
The  night — a  rather  clever  thing  to  do. 
How  soundly  women  sleep   [looks  at  his  wife], 
They're  all  alike.     The  sweetest  thing  in  life 
Is  woman  when  she  lies  with  folded  tongue, 
Its  toil  completed  and  its  day-song  sung. 
[Thump/]     That's  the  morning  paper.     What  a  bore 
That  it  should  be  delivered  at  the  door. 
There  ought  to  be  some  expeditious  way 
To  get  it  t«  one.    By  this  long  delay 


202    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  fizz  gets  off  the  news  [a  rap  is  heard"]. 
That's  Jane,  the  housemaid ;  she's  an  early  bird ; 
She's  brought  it  to  the  bedroom  door,  good  soul. 
[Gets  up  and  takes  it  in.']     Upon  the  whole, 
The  system's  not  so  bad  a  one.    What's  here? 
Gad!  if  they've  not  got  after — listen,  'dear, 
[To  sleeping  wife~\ — young  Gastrotheos.    Well, 
If  Freedom  shrieked  when  Kosciusko  fell 
She'll  shriek  again — with  laughter — seeing  how 
They  treated  Cast,  with  her.    Yet  I'll  allow 
'Tis  right  if  he  goes  dining  at  The  Pup 
With  Mrs.  Thing. 

WIFE  [briskly,  waking  up] : 
With  her?     The  hussy!     Yes,  it  serves  him  right. 

JONESMITH  [continuing  to  "  s-eek  the  light "]  : 
What's  this  about  old  Impycu?    That's  good! 
Grip — that's  the  funny  man — says  Impy  should 
Be  used  as  a  decoy  in  shooting  tramps. 
I  knew  old  Impy  when  he  had  the  "  stamps " 
To  buy  us  all  out,  and  he  wasn't  then 
So  bad  a  chap  to  have  about.    Grip's  pen 
Is  just  a  tickler! — and  the  world,  no  doubt, 
Is  better  with  it  than  it  was  without. 
What?  thirteen  ladies — Jumping  Jove!  we  know 
Them  nearly  all! — who  gamble  at  a  low 
And  very  shocking  game  of  cards  called  "  draw  " ! 
O  cracky,  how  they'll  squirm!  ha-ha!  haw-haw! 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        203 

Let's  see  what  else  [wife  snores].    Well,  I'll  be  blest! 

A  woman  doesn't  understand  a  jest. 

Hello !  What,  what  ?  the  scurvy  wretch  proceeds 

To  take  a  fling  at  me,  condemn  him !  [reads]  : 

Tom  Jonesmith — my  name's  Thomas,  vulgar  cad! — 

Of  the  new  Shavings  Bank — the  man's  gone  mad! 

That's  libelous;  I'll  have  him  up  for  that — 

Has  had  his  corns  cut.    Devil  take  the  rat! 

What  business  is't  of  his,  I'd  like  to  know? 

He  didn't  have  to  cut  them.     Gods!  what  low 

And  scurril  things  our  papers  have  become! 

You  skim  their  contents  and  you  get  but  scum. 

Here,  Mary  [waking  wife]  I've  been  attacked 

In  this  vile  sheet.     By  Jove,  it  is  a  fact ! 

WIFE  [reading  it] :   How  wicked !  Who  do  you 
Suppose  'twas  wrote  it? 

JONESMITH  :  Who  ?  why,  who 
But  Grip,  the  so-called  funny-man — he  wrote 
Me  up  because  I'd  not  discount  his  note. 
[Blushes  like  sunset  at  the  hideous  lie — 
He'll  think  of  one  that's  better  by  and  by; 
Throws  down  the  paper  on  the  floor,  and  treads 
A  merry  measure  on  it;  kicks  the  shreds 
And  patches  all  about  the  room,  and  still 
Performs  his  jig  with  unabated  will.] 

WIFE  [warbling  sweetly,  like  an  Elf  land  horn] : 
Dear,  do  be  careful  of  that  second  corn. 


204    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


STANLEY 

Noting  some  great  man  s  composition  vile : 
A  head  of  wisdom  and  a  heart  of  guile, 
A  will  to  conquer  and  a  soul  to  dare, 
Joined  to  the  manners  of  a  dancing  bear, 
Fools  unaccustomed  to  the  wide  survey 
Of   various    Nature's   compensating    sway; 
Untaught  to  separate  the  wheat  and  chaff, 
To  praise  the  one  and  at  the  other  laugh; 
Yearn  all  in  vain  and  impotently  seek 
Some  flawless  hero  upon  whom  to  wreak 
The  sycophantic  worship  of  the  weak. 


Not  so  the  wise,  from  superstition  free, 
Who  find  small  pleasure  in  the  supple  knee; 
Quick  to  discriminate  'twixt  good  and  bad, 
And  willing  in  the  king  to  find  the  cad — 
No  reason  seen  why  genius  and  'deceit, 
The  power  to  dazzle  and  the  will  to  cheat, 
The  love  of  daring  and  the  love  of  gin, 
Should  not  dwell,  peaceful,  in  a  single  skin. 

To  such,  great  Stanley,  you're  a  hero  still, 
Despite  your  cradling  in  a  tub  for  swill. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        205 

Your  peasant  manners  can't  efface  the  mark 
Of  light  you  drew  across  the  Land  of  Dark. 
In  you  the  extremes  of  character  are  wed, 
To  serve  the  quick  and  vilify  the  dead. 
Hero  and  clown !  O,  man  of  many  sides, 
The  Muse  of  Truth  adores  you  and  derides, 
And  sheds,  impartial,  the  revealing  ray 
Upon  your  head  of  gold  and  feet  of  clay. 


ONE    OF    THE    UNFAIR    SEX 

She  stood  at  the  ticket-seller's 
Serenely  removing  her  glove, 

While  hundreds  of  strugglers  and  yellers, 
And  some  that  were  good  at  a  shove, 
Were  clustered  behind  her  like  bats  in 
a  cave  and  dissembling  their  love. 

At  night  she  still  stood  at  that  window 
Endeavoring  her  money  to  reach; 

The  crowds  in  her  rear,  how  they  sinned — O, 
How  dreadfully  sinned  in  their  speech! 
Ten  miles  and  a  fraction  extended  their 
line,  the  historians  teach. 


206    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

She  stands  there  to-day — legislation 
Has  failed  to  remove  her.     The  trains 

No  longer  pull  up  at  that  station; 
And  over  the  ghastly  remains 
Of  the  army  that  waited  and  died  of  old 
age  fall  the  snows  and  the  rains. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  ON  A  COIN 

Upon  this  quarter-eagle's  leveled  face, 

The  Lord's  Prayer,  legibly  inscribed,  I  trace. 

"  Our  Father  which  " — the  pronoun  there  is  funny, 

And  shows  the  scribe  to  have  addressed  the  money — 

"  Which  art  in  Heaven  " — an  error  this,  no  doubt : 

The  preposition  should  be  stricken  out. 

Needless  to  quote;  I  only  have  designed 

To  praise  the  frankness  of  the  pious  mind 

Which  thought  it  natural  and  right  to  join, 

With  rare  significancy,  prayer  and  coin. 


AD   ABSURDUM 

Congressman   Rixey,   you're  a  statesman — you 
Yourself  will  hardly  say  that  you  are  not; 

And  yet  I  know  not  what  you  hope  to  do 
For  those  Confederates  whose  luckless  lot 
Is  to  have  lived  through  storms  of  Yankee  shot 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        207 

To  this  our  day.     They  draw  their  breath,  indeed, 

But  from  the  Government  no  cent  of  what 
So  admirably  serves  your  nobler  need. 
You  work  for  it?     Why,  that  all  cavilers  concede. 

You'd  call  these  "  rebels  "  to  the  Soldiers'  Homes 

On  equal  terms  with  persons  whom  they  fought! 
Whereat   the  "  truly  loyal "   statesman   foams 

At  the  loud   mouth  of   him.     But  that   is 
naught — 

He  foams,  not  for  he  must,  but  for  he  ought : 
For  the  Poll-patriot's  emotions  flow 

By    taking    (with    much    else    of    value) 

thought. 

His  feelings,  if  he  have  them,  never  blow 
His  cooling  coal  of  anger  to  a  brighter  glow. 

Well,  well,  sir,  even  the  Devil  may  be  right 
Through  ignorance  or  accident.     'Tis  said 

We're  sometimes  dazzled  with  too  great  a  light, 
In  which  the  blind,  with  customary  tread 
(And  by  a  small,  unblinking  puppy  led) 

Walk  prosperous  courses  to  appointed  goals. 
And  so  your  critics,  though  without  a  head 

Among  them — eyeless,  therefore,  as  the  moles — 

May  wiser  be  than  you,  who  damn  their  little 
souls ! 


208    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

If  of  two  aged  Southern  gentlemen 
Of  equal  need  and  worth,  the  one  that  tried 

To  cook  the  country's  goose — or  say  its  hen — 
Be  blest  with  all  the  cheer  we  can  provide, 
And  which  to  t'other  sternly  is  denied 

Because  he  didn't,  it  will  seem  right  queer. 
The  gods  are  logical  and  may  deride. 

Respect  the  Southern  veteran,  but  fear 

The  laughter  of  Olympus  sounding  loud  and 
clear! 


SAITH    THE    CZAR 

My  people  come  to  me  and  make  their  moan: 
"  We  starve,  your  Majesty — give  us  a  stone." 
That's  flat  rebellion! — how  the  devil  dare 
They  starve  right  in  my  capital  ?    Their  prayer 
For  something  in  their  bellies  I  will  meet 
With  that  which  I'll  not  trouble  them  to  eat. 
They  ask  for  greater  freedom.     No,  indeed — 
What  happened  to  my  ancestor  who  freed 
The  serfs?     His  grateful  subjects  duly  flung 
Something  that  spoke  to  him  without  a  tongue. 
So  he  was  sacrificed  for  Freedom's  sake, 
And  gathered  to  his  fathers  with  a  rake. 
I  from  Autocracy  my  people  free? 
Ah,  would  to  Heaven  they  could  deliver  me! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        209 


THE    ROYAL    JESTER 

Once  on  a  time,  so  ancient  poets  sing, 
There  reigned  in  Godknowswhere  a  certain  king. 
So  great  a  monarch  ne'er  before  was  seen: 
He  was  a  hero,  even  to  his  queen, 
In  whose  respect  he  held  so  high  a  place 
That  none  had  higher, — nay,  not  even  the  ace. 
He  was  so  just  his  parliament  declared 
Those  subjects  happy  whom  his  laws  had  spared; 
So  wise  that  none  of  the  debating  throng 
Had  ever  lived  to  prove  him  in  the  wrong; 
So  good  that  Crime  his  anger  never  feared, 
•And  Beauty  boldly  plucked  him  by  the  beard; 
So  brave  that  if  his  army  got  a  beating 
None  dared  to  face  him  when  he  was  retreating. 

This  monarch  kept  a  fool  to  make  his  mirth, 
And  loved  him  tenderly  despite  his  worth. 
Prompted  by  what  caprice  I  cannot  say, 
He  called  the  Fool  before  the  throne  one  day 
And  to  that  minion  seriously  said: 
"  I'll  abdicate,  and  you  shall  reign  instead, 
While  I,  attired  in  motley,  will  make  sport 
To  entertain  your  Majesty  and  Court." 


210    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

'Twas  done  and  the  Fool  governed.     He  decreed 

The  time  of  harvest  and  the  time  of  seed ; 

Ordered  the  rains  and  made  the  weather  clear, 

And  had  a  famine  every  second  year; 

Altered  the  calendar  to  suit  his  freak, 

Ordaining  six  whole  holidays  a  week; 

Religious  creeds  and  sacred  books  prepared; 

Made  war  when  angry  and  made  peace  when  scared. 

New  taxes  he  imposed ;  new  laws  he  made ; 

Drowned  those  who  broke  them,  who  observed  them, 

flayed. 

In  short,  he  ruled  so  well  that  all  who'd  not 
Been  starved,  decapitated,  hanged  or  shot 
Made  the  whole  country  with  his  praises  ring, 
Declaring  he  was  every  inch  a  king; 
And  the  High  Priest  averred  'twas  very  odd 
If  one  so  competent  were  not  a  god. 


Meantime,  his  master,  now  in  motley  clad, 
Wore  such  a  visage,  woful,  wan  and  sad, 
That  some  condoled  with  him  as  with  a  brother 
Who,  having  lost  a  wife,  had  got  another. 
Others,  mistaking  his  profession,  often 
Approached  him  to  be  measured  for  a  coffin. 
For  years  this  highborn  Jester  never  broke 
The  silence — he  was  pondering  a  joke. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        211 

At  last,  one  day,  in  cap  and  bells  arrayed, 

He  strode  into  the  Council  and  displayed 

A  long  bright  smile,  that  glittered  in  the  gloom 

Like  a  gilt  epitaph  within  a  tomb. 

Poising  his  bauble  like  a  leader's  staff, 

To  give  the  signal  when  (and  why)  to  laugh, 

He  brought  it  down  with  peremptory  stroke 

And  simultaneously  cracked  his  joke! 


I  can't  repeat  it,  friends.    I  ne'er  could  school 
Myself  to  quote  from  any  other  fool: 
A  jest,  if  it  were  worse  than  mine,  would  start 
My  tears;  if  better,  it  would  break  my  heart. 
So,  if  you  please,  I'll  hold  you  but  to  state 
That  royal  Jester's  melancholy  fate. 

The  insulted  nation,  so  the  story  goes, 

Rose  as  one  man — the  very  dead  arose, 

Springing  indignant  from  the  riven  tomb, 

And  babes  unborn  leapt  swearing  from  the  womb! 

All  to  the  Council  Chamber  clamoring  went, 

By  rage  distracted  and  on  vengeance  bent. 

In  that  vast  hall,  in  due  disorder  laid, 

The  tools  of  legislation  were  displayed, 

And  the  wild  populace,  its  wrath  to  sate, 

Seized  them  and  heaved  them  at  the  Jester's  pate. 


212    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Mountains  of  writing  paper;  pools  and  seas 
Of  ink  awaiting,  to  become  decrees, 
Royal  approval — and  the  same  in  stacks 
Lay  ready  for  attachment,  backed  with  wax; 
Pens  to  make  laws,  erasers  to  amend  them, 
With  mucilage  convenient  to  extend  them; 
Scissors  for  limiting  their  application, 
Trash-baskets  to  repeal  all  legislation — 
These,  flung  as  missiles  till  the  air  was  dense, 
Were  most  offensive  weapons  of  offense, 
And  by  their  aid  the  man  was  nigh  destroyed. 
They  ne'er  had  been  so  harmlessly  employed. 
Whelmed  underneath  a  load  of  legal  cap, 
His  mouth  egurgitating  ink  on  tap, 
His  eyelids  mucilaginously  sealed, 
His  fertile  head  by  scissors  made  to  yield 
Abundant  harvestage  of  ears,  his  pelt, 
In  every  wrinkle  and  on  every  welt, 
Quickset  with  pencil-points  from  feet  to  gills 
And  thickly  studded  with  a  pride  of  quills, 
The  royal  Jester  in  the  dreadful  strife 
Was  made  (in  short)  an  editor  for  life! 

An  idle  tale,  and  yet  a  moral  lurks 
In  this  as  plainly  as  in  greater  works. 
I  shall  not  give  it  birth:  one  moral  here 
Would  die  of  loneliness  within  a  year. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        213 


A  CAREER  IN  LETTERS 

When  Liberverm  resigned  the  chair 

Of  This  or  That  in  college,  where 

Two  decades  he  had  gorged  his  brain 

With  more  than  it  could  well  contain, 

In  order  to  relieve  the  stress 

He  took  to  writing  for  the  press. 

Then  Pondronummus  said:  "I'll  help 

This  mine  of  talent  to  devel'p :  " 

And  straightway  bought  with  coin  and  credit 

The  Thundergust  for  him  to  edit. 

The  great  man  seized  the  pen  and  ink 
And  wrote  so  hard  he  couldn't  think. 
Ideas  grew  beneath  his  fist 
And  flew  like  falcons  from  his  wrist. 
His  pen  shot  sparks  all  kinds  of  ways 
Till  all  the  rivers  were  ablaze, 
And  where  the  coruscations  fell 
Men  uttered  words  I  dare  not  spell. 

Eftsoons  with  corrugated  brow, 
Wet  towels  bound   about  his  pow, 
Locked  legs  and  failing  appetite, 
He  thought  so  hard  he  couldn't  write. 


214    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

His  soaring  fancies,   chickenwise, 
Came  home  to  roost  and  wouldn't  rise. 
With  dimmer  light  and  milder  heat 
His  goose-quill  staggered  o'er  the  sheet, 
Then  dragged,  then  stopped;  the  finish  came — • 
He  couldn't  even  write  his  name. 
The  Thundergust  in  three  short  weeks 
Had  risen,  roared,  and  split  its  cheeks. 
Said  Pondronummus,  "  How  unjust! 
The  storm  I  raised  has  laid  my  dust !  " 

When,  Moneybagger,  you  have  aught 
Invested  in  a  vein  of  thought, 
Be  sure  you've  purchased  not,  instead, 
That  salted  claim,  a  bookworm's  head. 


THE    FOLLOWING    PAIR 

O  very  remarkable  mortal, 

What  food  is  engaging  your  jaws 
And  staining  with  amber  their  portal? 
"  It's  'baccy  I  chaws." 

And  why  do  you  sway  in  your  walking, 
To  right  and  left  many  degrees, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        215 

And  hitch  up  your  trousers  when  talking? 
"  I  follers  the  seas." 


Great  indolent  shark  in  the  rollers, 

Is  "  'baccy,"  too,  one  of  your  faults  ? — 
You,  too,  display  maculate  molars. 
"  I  dines  upon  salts." 

Strange  diet! — intestinal  pain  it 

Is  commonly  given  to  nip. 
And  how  can  you  ever  obtain  it? 
"  I  follers  the  ship." 


POLITICAL  ECONOMY 

"  I  beg  you  to  note,"  said  a  Man  to  a  Goose, 

As  he  plucked  from  her  bosom  the  plumage  all  loose, 

"  That  pillows  and  cushions  of  feathers,  and  beds 

As  warm  as  maids'  hearts  and  as  soft  as  their  heads, 

Increase  of  life's  comforts  the  general  sum — 

Which  raises  the  standard  of  living."     "  Come,  come," 

The  Goose  said  impatiently,  "  tell  me  or  cease, 

How  that  is  of  any  advantage  to  geese." 

"What,  what!"  said  the  man — "you  are  very  obtuse! 

Consumption  no  profit  to  those  who  produce? 


216    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

No  good  to  accrue  to  Supply  from  a  grand 

Progressive  expansion,  all  around,  of  Demand? 

Luxurious  habits  no  benefit  bring 

To  those  who  purvey  the  luxurious  thing? 

Consider,  I  pray  you,  my  friend,  how  the  growth 

Of  luxury  promises — "  "  Promises,"  quoth 

The  sufferer,  "  what  ? — to  what  course  is  it  pledged 

To  pay  me  for  being  so  often  defledged?" 

"  Accustomed  " — this  notion  the  plucker  expressed 

As  he  ripped  out  a  handful  of  down  from  her  breast- 

"  To  one  kind  of  luxury,  people  soon  yearn 

For  others  and  ever  for  others  in  turn. 

The  man  who  to-night  on  your  feathers  will  rest, 

His  mutton  or  bacon  or  beef  to  digest, 

His  hunger  to-morrow  will  wish  to  assuage 

With  goose  and  a  dressing  of  onions  and  sage." 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN 

I  reckon  that  ye  never  knew, 
That  dandy  slugger,  Tom  Carew. 
He  had  a  touch  as  light  an'  free 
As  that  of  any  honey-bee; 
But  where  it  lit  there  wasn't  much 
To  jestify  another  touch. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        217 

O,  what  a  Sunday-school  it  was 

To  watch  him  puttin'  up  his  paws 

An'  roominate  upon  their  heft — 

Particular  his  holy  left! 

Tom  was  my  style — that's  all  I  say; 

Some  others  may  be  equal  gay. 

What's  come  of  him?    Dunno,  I'm  sure; 

He's  dead — which  makes  his  fate  obscure. 

I  only  started  in  to  clear 

One  vital  p'int  in  his  career, 

Which  is  to  say — afore  he  died 

He  soiled  his  erming  mighty  snide. 

Ye  see  he  took  to  politics 

And  learnt  them  statesmen-fellers'  tricks; 

Pulled  wires,  wore  stovepipe  hats,  used  scent, 

Just  like  he  was  the  President; 

Went  to  the  Legislater;  spoke 

Right  out  agin  the  British  yoke — 

But  that  was  right.    He  let  his  hair 

Grow  long  to  qualify  for  Mayor, 

An'  once  or  twice  he  poked  his  snoot 

In  Congress  like  a  low  galoot! 

It  had  to  come — no  gent  can  hope 

To  wrastle  God  agin  the  rope. 

Tom  went  from  bad  to  wuss.     Being  dead, 

I  s'pose  it  oughtn't  to  be  said, 

For  sech  inikities  as  flow 

From  politics  ain't  fit  to  know. 


218    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

But,  if  you  think  it's  actin'  white 
To  tell  it — Thomas  throwed  a  fight! 


INDUSTRIAL  DISCONTENT 

As  time  rolled  on  the  whole  world  came  to  be 

A  desolation  and  a  darksome  curse; 
And  some  one  said :  "  The  changes  that  you  see 

In  the  fair  frame  of  things,  from  bad  to  worse, 
Are  wrought  by  strikes.    The  sun  withdrew  his  glim 
mer 
Because  the  moon  assisted  with  her  shimmer. 

"  Then,  when  poor  Luna,  straining  very  hard, 
Doubled  her  light  to  serve  a  darkling  world, 

He  called  her  '  scab,'  and  meanly  would  retard 
Her  rising:  and  at  last  the  villain  hurled 

A  heavy  beam  which  knocked  her  o'er  the  Lion 

Into  the  nebula  of  great  O'Ryan. 

"  The  planets  all  had  struck  some  time  before, 

Demanding  what  they  said  were  equal  rights: 

Some  pointing  out  that  others  had  far  more 
Than  a  fair  dividend  of  satellites. 

So  all  went  out — but  those  the  best  provided, 

If  they  had  dared  would  rather  have  abided. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        219 

"  The  stars  struck  too — I  think  it  was  because 
The  comets  had  more  liberty  than  they, 

And  were  not  bound  by  any  hampering  laws, 

While  they  were  fixed;  and  there  are  those  who 
say 

The  comets'  tresses  nettled  poor  Antares, 

A  bald  old  orb,  whose  disposition  varies. 

"  The  earth's  the  only  one  that  isn't  in 

The  movement — I  suppose  because  she's  watched 
With  horror  and  disgust  how  her  fair  skin 

Her  pranking  parasites  have  fouled  and  blotched 
With  blood  and  grease  in  every  labor  riot, 
When  seeing  any  purse  or  throat  to  fly  at." 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR 

"The  world  is  dull,"  I  cried  in  my  despair: 
"  Its  myths  and  fables  are  no  longer  fair. 

"Roll  back  thy  centuries,  O  Father  Time: 
To  Greece  transport  me  in  her  golden  prime. 

"  Give  back  the  beautiful  old  gods  again — 
The  sportive  Nymphs,  the  Dryad's  jocund 
train, 


220    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Pan  piping  on  his  reeds,  the  Naiades, 
The  Sirens  singing  by  the  sleepy  seas. 

"  Nay,  show  me  but  a  Gorgon  and  I'll  dare 
To  lift  mine  eyes  to  her  peculiar  hair 

"(The  fatal  horrors  of  her  snaky  pate, 
That  stiffen  men  into  a  stony  state) 

"  And   die — becoming,   as  my  spirit  flies, 
A  noble  statue  of  myself,  life  size." 

Straight  as  I  spoke  I  heard  the  voice  of  Fate : 
"  Look  up,  my  lad,  the  Gorgon  sisters  wait." 

Lifting  my  eyes,  I  saw  Medusa  stand, 
Stheno,  Euryale,  on  either  hand. 

I  gazed  unpetrified  and  unappalled — 
The  girls  had  aged  and  were  entirely  bald! 


A  FALSE  ALARM 

When  Gertrude  Atherton  pronounced  the  ladies 
Of  fair  Manhattan  hideous  as  Hades — 
In  eyes  no  splendor,  and  in  cheeks  no  roses, 
And,  O  ye  godlings!  rudimentary  noses — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        221 

To  pass  a  bad  half-hour  before  their  glasses, 
Straight  to  their  dressing-rooms  ran  dames  and 

lasses, 

Who,  still  dissenting  from  her  curst  appraisal, 
Grew  more  pugnacious,  but  not  less  pugnasal. 
Ladies,  be  calm:  there's  nothing  to  distress  you — 
The  Sacred  Englishman  will  rise  and  bless  you. 
No  noses — none  to  speak  of — is  alarming, 
But  that  you  can't  speak  through  them — that  is 

charming ! 


CONTENTMENT 

Sleep  fell  upon  my  senses  and  I  dreamed 

Long  years  had  circled  since  my  life  had  fled. 

The  world  was  different,  and  all  things  seemed 
Remote  and  strange,  like  noises  to  the  dead. 
And  one  great  Voice  there  was;  and  some  one  said: 

"  Posterity  is  speaking — rightly  deemed 

Infallible  " ;  and  so  I  gave  attention, 

Hoping  Posterity  my  name  would  mention. 

"  Illustrious  Spirit,"  said  the  Voice,  "  appear ! 

While  we  confirm  eternally  thy  fame, 
Before  our  dread  tribunal  answer,  here, 


222    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Why  do  no  statues  celebrate  thy  name, 
No  monuments  thy  services  proclaim? 
Why  did  not  thy  contemporaries  rear 
To  thee  some  schoolhouse  or  memorial  college? 
It  looks  almighty  queer,  you  must  acknowledge." 

Up  spake  I  hotly :  "  That  is  where  you  err ! " 
But  some  one  thundered  in  my  ear:  "You  shan't 

Be  interrupting  these  proceedings,  sir; 

The  question  was  addressed  to  General  Grant." 
Some  other  things  were  spoken  which  I  can't 

Distinctly  now  recall,  but  I  infer, 

By  certain  flushings  of  my  cheek  and  forehead, 

Posterity's  environment  is  torrid. 

Then  heard  I  (this  was  in  a  dream,  remark) 
Another  Voice,  clear,  comfortable,  strong, 
As  Grant's  great  shade,  replying  from  the  dark, 
Said  in  a  tone  that  rang  the  earth  along, 
And  thrilled  the  senses  of  the  judges'  throng: 
"  I'd  rather  you  would  question  why,  in  park 
And  street,  my  monuments  were  not  erected 
Than  why  they  were."    Then,  waking,  I  reflected. 
1885. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        223 


CONSTANCY 

I  had  a  dream.     A  throng  of  people  sped 
Hard  after  something  that  before  them  fled — 
A  ball  that  leapt  and  bounded.     I  pursued, 
Kicking,  like  all  the  rest,  at  Bryan's  head. 

Ah,  God,  it  was  indeed  a  ghastly  play! 
That  noble  head — its  locks  in  disarray 

Streaming  like  feathers  of  a  shuttlecock — 
Urged  with  resounding  buffets  on  its  way. 

Ever  the  foremost  in  the  chase  accurst 
Ran  Two  who  in  his  life,  too,  had  been  first 
Among  his  followers.     "  Behold,"  I  cried, 
"  Those  twins  of  constancy,  the  Devil  and  Hearst !  " 

Smitten  in  spirit  with  a  sudden  shame, 
And  from  intemperate  exertion  lame, 

I  sprang,  and  skyward  with  a  parting  kick 
Hoisted  that  mellow  bulb,  and  left  the  game. 


224,    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


THE    NEW    ENOCH    ARDEN 

Enoch  Arden  was  an  able 

Seaman;   hear  of   his   mishap — 

Not  in  wild  mendacious  fable, 
As  'twas  told  by  t'other  chap; 

For  I  hold  it  is  a  youthful 

Indiscretion  to  tell  lies, 
And  the  writer  that  is  truthful 

Has  the  reader  that  is  wise. 

Enoch  Arden,  able  seaman, 

On  an  isle  was  cast  away, 
And  before  he  was  a  free  man 

Time  had  touched  him  up  with  gray. 

Long  he  searched  the  far  horizon, 

Seated  on  a  mountain  top; 
Vessel  ne'er  he  set  his  eyes  on 

That  would  undertake  to  stop. 

Seeing  that  his  sight  was  growing 
Dim  and  dimmer  day  by  day, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        225 

Enoch  said  he  must  be  going. 
So  he  rose  and  went  away — 


Went  away  and  so  continued 
Till  he  lost  his  lonely  isle: 

Mr.  Arden  was  so  sinewed 
He  could  row  for  many  a  mile. 

Compass  he  had  not,  nor  sextant, 
To  direct  him  o'er  the  sea: 

Ere  'twas  known  that  he  was  extant, 
At  his  boyhood's  home  was  he. 

When  he  saw  the  hills  and  hollows 
And  the  streets  he  could  but  know, 

He  gave  utterance  as  follows 
To  the  sentiments  below: 

"Blast  my  tarry  toplights!   (shiver, 
Too,  my  timbers)  but,  I  say, 

Wat  a  larruk  to  diskiver 

That  I've  lost  my  blessed  way! 

"  Wat,  alas,  would  be  my  bloomin* 
Fate  if  Philip  now  I  see, 


226    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

Which  I  lammed? — or  my  old  'oman, 
Which  has  frequent  basted  me?" 


All  the  landscape  swam  around  him 

At  the  thought  of  such  a  lot: 
In  a  swoon  his  Annie  found  him 

And  conveyed  him  to  her  cot. 

'Twas  the  very  house,  the  garden, 
Where  their  honeymoon  was  passed: 

'Twas  the  place  where  Mrs.  Arden 
Would  have  mourned  him  to  the  last. 

Ah,  what  grief  she'd  known  without  him! 

Now  what  tears  of  joy  she  shed ! 
Enoch  Arden  looked  about  him: 

"  Shanghaied !  " — that  was  all  he  said. 


DISAVOWAL 

Two  bodies  are  lying  in  Phoenix  Park, 

Grim  and  bloody  and  stiff  and  stark, 

And  a  Land  League  man  with  averted  eye 

Crosses  himself  as  he  hurries  by. 

And  he  says  to  his  conscience  under  his  breath : 

"  I  have  had  no  hand  in  this  deed  of  death." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        227 

A  Fenian,  making  a  circuit  wide 
And  passing  them  by  on  the  other  side, 
Shudders  and  crosses  himself  and  cries: 
"Who  says  that  I  did  it,  he  lies,  he  lies!" 
Gingerly  stepping  across  the  gore, 
Pat  Satan  comes  after  the  two  before, 
Makes,  in  a  solemnly  comical  way, 
The  sign  of  the  cross  and  is  heard  to  say : 
"  O  dear,  what  a  terrible  sight  to  see, 
For  babes  like  them  and  a  saint  like  me !  '* 
1882. 


AN  AVERAGE 

I  ne'er  could  be  entirely  fond 
Of  any  maiden  who's  a  blonde, 
And  no  brunette  that  e'er  I  saw 
My  whole  devotion  e'er  could  draw. 

Yet  sure  no  girl  was  ever  made 
Just  half  of  light  and  half  of  shade. 
And  so,  this  happy  mean  to  get, 
I  love  a  blonde  and  a  brunette. 


228    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


INCURABLE 

From  pride,  guile,  hate,  greed,  melancholy- 

From  any  kind  of  vice,  or  folly, 

Bias,  propensity  or  passion 

That  is  in  prevalence  and  fashion, 

Save  one,  the  sufferer  or  lover 

May,  by  the  grace  of  God,  recover. 

Alone  that  spiritual  tetter, 

The  zeal  to  make  creation  better, 

Glows  still  immedicably  warmer. 

Who  knows  of  a  reformed  reformer? 


THE    PUN 

Hail,  peerless  Pun!  thou  last  and  best, 
Most  rare  and  excellent  bequest 
Of  dying  idiot  to  the  wit 
He  died  of,  rat-like,  in  a  pit! 

Thyself  disguised,  in  many  a  way, 
Thou  let'st  thy  sudden  splendor  play, 
Adorning  all  where'er  it  turns, 
As  the  revealing  bull's-eye  burns 
For  the  dim  thief,  and  plays  its  trick 
Upon  the  lock  he  means  to  pick. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        229 

Yet  sometimes,  too,  thou  dost  appear 

As  boldly  as  a  brigadier 

Tricked  out  with  marks  and  signs  all  o'er 

Of  rank,  brigade,  division,  corps, 

To  show  by  every  means  he  can 

An  officer  is  not  a  man; 

Or  naked,  with  a  lordly  swagger, 

Proud  as  a  cur  without  a  wagger, 

Who  says:  "  See  simple  worth  prevail — 

All  dog,  sir — not  a  bit  of  tail !  " 

'Tis  then  men  give  thee  loudest  welcome, 

As  if  thou  wert  a  soul  from  Hell  come. 


O  obvious  Pun!  thou  hast  the  grace 
Of  skeleton  clock  without  a  case — 
With  its  whole  boweling  displayed, 
And  all  its  organs  on  parade. 

Dear  Pun,   thou'rt  common  ground   of  bliss, 
Where  Punch  and  I  can  meet  and  kiss; 
Than  thee  my  wit  can  stoop  no  lower — 
No  higher  his  does  ever  soar. 


230    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


TO  NANINE 

Dear,  if  I  never  saw  your  face  again; 

If  all  the  music  of  your  voice  were  mute 

As  that  of  a  forlorn  and  broken  lute; 
If  only  in  my  dreams  I  might  attain 
The  benediction  of  your  touch,  how  vain 

Were  Faith  to  justify  the  old  pursuit 

Of  happiness,  or  Reason  to  confute 
The  pessimist  philosophy  of  pain. 
Yet  Love  not  altogether  is  unwise, 

For  still  the  wind  would  murmur  in  the  corn, 
And  still  the  sun  would  splendor  all  the  mere; 
And  I — I  could  not,  dearest,  choose  but  hear 
Your  voice  upon  the  breeze  and  see  your  eyes 

Shine  in  the  glory  of  the  summer  morn. 


VICE  VERSA 

Down  in  the  state  of  Maine,  the  story  goes, 
A  woman,  to  secure  a  lapsing  pension, 

Married  a  soldier — though  the  good  Lord  knows 
That  very  common  act  scarce  takes  attention. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        231 

What  makes  it  worthy  to  be  writ  and  read — 
The  man  she  married  had  been  nine  hours  dead! 


Now,  marrying  a  corpse  is  not  an  act 

Familiar  to  our  daily  observation, 
And  so  I  crave  her  pardon  if  the  fact 

Suggests  this  interesting  speculation: 
Should  some  mischance  restore  the  man  to  life 
Would  she  be  then  a  widow,  or  a  wife? 

Let  casuists  contest  the  point;  I'm  not 
Disposed  to  grapple  with  so  great  a  matter. 

'Twould  tie  my  thinker  in  a  double  knot 
And  drive  me  staring  mad  as  any  hatter — 

Though  I  submit  that  hatters  are,  in  fact, 

Sane,  and  all  other  human  beings  cracked. 

Small  thought  have  I  of  Destiny  or  Chance; 

Luck  seems  to  me  the  same  thing  as  Intention; 
in  metaphysics  I  could  ne'er  advance, 

And  think  it  of  the  Devil's  own  invention. 
Enough  of  joy  to  know:  Though  when  I  wed 
I  must  be  married,  yet  I  may  be  dead. 


232    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 


A  BLACKLIST 

"  Resolved  that  we  will  post,"  the  tradesmen  say, 

"  All  names  of  debtors  who  do  never  pay." 

"  Whose  shall  be  first  ?  "  inquires  the  ready  scribe — 

"  Who  are  the  chiefs  of  the  marauding  tribe  ?  " 

Lo!  high  Parnassus,  lifting  from  the  plain, 

Upon  his  hoary  peak,  a  noble  fane! 

Within  that  temple  all  the  names  are  scrolled 

Of  village  bards,  upon  a  slab  of  gold; 

To  that  bad  eminence,  my  friend,  aspire, 

And  copy  thou  the  Roll  of  Fame,  entire. 

Yet  not  to  total  shame  those  names  devote, 

But  add  in  mercy  this  explaining  note: 

"  These  cheat  because  the  law  makes  theft  a  crime, 

And  they  obey  all  laws  but  laws  of  rhyme." 


AUTHORITY 

"  Authority,  authority !  "  they  shout 

Whose  minds,  not  large  enough  to  hold  a  doubt, 

Some  chance  opinion  ever  entertain, 

By  dogma  billeted  upon  their  brain. 

"  Ha !  "  they  exclaim  with  choreatic  glee, 

"  Here's  Dabster  if  you  won't  give  in  to  me — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        233 

Dabster,  sir,  Dabster,  to  whom  all  men  look 

With  reverence ! "     The  fellow  wrote  a  book. 

It  matters  not  that  many  another  wight 

Has  thought  more  deeply,  could  more  wisely  write 

On  t'other  side — that  you  yourself  possess 

Knowledge  where  Dabster  did  not  badly  guess. 

God  help  you  if  ambitious  to  persuade 

The  fools  who  take  opinions  ready-made 

And  "  recognize  authorities."     Be  sure 

No  tittle  of  their  folly  they'll  abjure 

For  all  that  you  can  say.     But  write  it  down, 

Publish  and  die  and  get  a  great  renown — 

Faith!  how  they'll  snap  it  up,  misread,  misquote, 

Swear  that  they  had  a  hand  in  all  you  wrote, 

And  ride  your  fame  like  monkeys  on  a  goat! 


THE  PSORIAD 

The  King  of  Scotland,  years  and  years  ago, 
Convened  his  courtiers  in  a  gallant  row 
And  thus  addressed  them: 

"  Gentle  sirs,  from  you 
Abundant  counsel  I  have  had,  and  true: 
What  laws  to  make  to  serve  the  public  weal; 
What  laws  of  Nature's  making  to  repeal; 


234    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

What  old  religion  is  the  only  true  one, 
And  what  the  greater  merit  of  some  new  one ; 
What  friends  of  yours  my  favor  have  forgot ; 
Which  of  your  enemies  against  me  plot. 
In  harvests  ample  to  augment  my  treasures, 
Behold  the  fruits  of  your  sagacious  measures ! 
The  punctual  planets,  to  their  periods  just, 
Attest  your  wisdom  and  approve  my  trust. 
Lo!  the  reward  your  faith  and  wisdom  bring: 
The  grateful  placemen  bless  their  useful  king! 
But  while  you  quaff  the  nectar  of  my  favor 
I  mean  somewhat  to  modify  its  flavor 
By  just  infusing  a  peculiar  dash 
Of  tonic  bitter  in  the  calabash. 
And  should  you,  too  abstemious,  disdain  it, 
Egad!  I'll  hold  your  noses  till  you  drain  it! 


"You  know,  you  dogs,  your  master  long  has  felt 
A  keen  distemper  in  the  royal  pelt — 
A  testy,  superficial  irritation, 

Brought  home,  I  fancy,  from  some  foreign  nation. 
For  this  a  thousand  simples  you've  prescribed — 
Unguents  external,  draughts  to  be  imbibed. 
You've  plundered  Scotland  of  its  plants,  the  seas 
You've  ravished,  and  despoiled  the  Hebrides 
To  brew  me  remedies  which,  in  probation, 
Were  sovereign  only  in  their  application. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        235 

In  vain,  and  eke  in  pain,  have  I  applied 
Your  flattering  unctions  to  my  soul  and  hide: 
Physic  and  hope  have  been  my  daily  food — 
I've  swallowed  treacle  by  the  holy  rood! 

"  Your  wisdom  which  sufficed  to  guide  the  year 

And  tame  the  seasons  in  their  mad  career, 

When  set  to  higher  purposes  has  failed  me 

And  added  anguish  to  the  ills  that  ailed  me. 

Nor  that  alone,  but  each  ambitious  leech 

His  rivals'  skill  has  labored  to  impeach 

By  hints  equivocal  in  secret  speech. 

For  years,  to  conquer  our  respective  broils, 

We've  plied  each  other  with  pacific  oils 

In  vain:  your  turbulence  is  unallayed, 

My  flame  unquenched;  your  quarreling  unstayed; 

My  life  so  wretched  from  your  strife  to  save  it 

That  death  were  welcome  did  I  dare  to  brave  it. 

With  zeal  inspired  by  your  intemperate  pranks, 

My  subjects  muster  in  contending  ranks. 

Those  fling  their  banners  to  the  startled  breeze 

To  champion  some  royal  ointment;  these 

The  standard  of  a  royal  purge  display 

And  'neath  that  ensign  wage  a  wasteful  fray! 

Brave  tongues  are  thundering  from  sea.  to  sea, 

Torrents  of  sweat  roll  reeking  o'er  the  lea! 

My  people  perish  in  their  martial  fear, 

And  rival  bagpipes  cleave  the  royal  ear! 


236    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Now,  caitiffs,  tremble,  for  this  very  hour 

Your  injured  sovereign  shall  assert  his  power! 

Behold  this  lotion,  carefully  compound 

Of  all  the  poisons  you  for  me  have  found — 

Of  biting  washes  such  as  tan  the  skin, 

And  drastic  drinks  to  vex  the  parts  within. 

What  aggravates  an  ailment  will  produce — 

I  mean  to  rub  you  with  this  dreadful  juice! 

Divided  counsels  you  no  more  shall  hatch — 

At  last  you  shall  unanimously  scratch. 

Kneel,  villains,  kneel,  and  doff  your  shirts — God 

bless  us! 
They'll  seem,  when  you  resume  them,  robes  of  Nessus ! " 

The  sovereign  ceased,  and,  sealing  what  he  spoke, 
From  Arthur's  Seat*  confirming  thunders  broke. 
The  conscious  culprits,  to  their  fate  resigned, 
Sank  to  their  knees,  all  piously  inclined. 
This  act,  from  high  Ben  Lomond  where  she  floats, 
The  thrifty  goddess,  Caledonia,  notes. 
Glibly  as  nimble  sixpence,  down  she  tilts 
Headlong,  and  ravishes  away  their  kilts, 
Tears  off  each  plaid  and  all  their  shirts  discloses, 
Removes  each  shirt  and  their  broad  backs  exposes. 
The  king  advanced — then  cursing  fled  amain, 
Dashing  the  phial  to  the  stony  plain 

*A  famous  height  overlooking  Edinburgh. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        237 

(Where't  straight  became  a  fountain  brimming  o'er, 
Whence  Father  Tweed  derives  his  liquid  store) 
For  lo!  already  on  each  back  sans  stitch 
The  red  sign  manual  of  the  Rosy  Witch! 


PEACE 

When  lion  and  lamb  have  together  lain  down 

Spectators  cry  out,  all  in  chorus: 
"  The  lamb  doesn't  shrink  nor  the  lion  frown — 

A  miracle's  working  before  us ! " 

But  'tis  patent  why  Hot-head  his  wrath  holds  in, 
And  Faint-heart  her  terror  and  loathing; 

For  the  one's  but  an  ass  in  a  lion's  skin, 
The  other  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 


THANKSGIVING 

The  Superintendent  of  an  Almshouse.     A  Pauper. 

SUPERINTENDENT: 

So  you're  unthankful — you'll  not  eat  the  bird? 
You  sit  about  the  place  all  day  and  gird. 


238    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

I  understand  you'll  not  attend  the  ball 
That's  to  be  given  to-night  in  Pauper  Hall. 

PAUPER  : 

Why,  that  is  true,  precisely  as  you've  heard: 
I  have  no  teeth  and  I  will  eat  no  bird. 

SUPERINTENDENT  : 

Ah !  see  how  good  is  Providence.     Because 
Of  teeth  He  has  denuded  both  your  jaws 
The  fowl's  made  tender;  you  can  overcome  it 
By  suction;  or  at  least — well,  you  can  gum  it, 
Confirming  thus  the  dictum  of  the  preachers 
That  Providence  is  good  to  all  His  creatures — 
Turkeys  excepted.     Come,  ungrateful  friend, 
If  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  you'll  attend 
You  shall  say  grace — ask  God  to  bless  at  least 
The  soft  and  liquid  portions  of  the  feast. 

PAUPER: 

Without  those  teeth  my  speech  is  rather  thick — 
He'll  hardly  understand  Gum  Arabic. 
No,  I'll  not  dine  to-day.     As  to  the  ball, 
'Tis  known  to  you  that  I've  no  legs  at  all. 
I  had  the  gout — hereditary;  so, 
As  it  could  not  be  cornered  in  my  toe 
They  cut  my  legs  off  in  the  fond  belief 
That  shortening  me  would  make  my  anguish  brief. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        239 

Lacking  my  legs  I  could  not  prosecute 

With  any  good  advantage  a  pursuit; 

And  so,  because  my  father  chose  to  court 

Heaven's  favor  with  his  ortolans  and  port 

(Thanksgiving  every  day!)  the  Lord  supplied 

Saws  for  my  legs,  an  almshouse  for  my  pride 

And,  once  a  year,  a  bird  for  my  inside. 

No,  I'll  not  dance — my  light  fantastic  toe 

Took  to  its  heels  some  twenty  years  ago. 

Some  small  repairs  would  be  required  for  putting 

My  body  on  a  saltatory  footing. 

[Sings:] 

O  the  legless  man's  an  unhappy  chap — 

Tum-hl,  tum-hl,  turn-he  o'haddy. 
The  favors  o'  fortune  fall  not  in  his  lap — 

Tum-hi,  tum-heedle-do  hum. 
The  plums  of  office  avoid  his  plate 
No  matter  how  much  he  may  stump  the  State — 

Tum-hl,  ho-heeee. 

The  grass  grows  never  beneath  his  feet, 
But  he  cannot  hope  to  make  both  ends  meet — 

Tum-hl. 

With  a  gleeless  eye  and  a  somber  heart, 
He  plays  the  role  of  his  mortal  part: 
Wholly  himself  he  can  never  be. 
O,  a  soleless  corporation  is  he! 
Turn. 


240    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

SUPERINTENDENT  : 

The  chapel  bell  is  calling,  thankless  friend, 
Balls  you  may  not,  but  church  you  shall,  attend. 
Some  recognition  cannot  be  denied 
To  the  great  mercy  that  has  turned  aside 
The  sword  of  death  from  us  and  let  it  fall 
Upon  the  people's  necks  in  Montreal; 
That  spared  our  city,  steeple,  roof  and  dome, 
And  drowned  the  Texans  out  of  house  and  home; 
Blessed  all  our  continent  with  peace,  to  flood 
The  Balkan  with  a  cataclysm  of  blood. 
Compared  with  blessings  of  so  high  degree, 
Your  private  woes  look  mighty  small — to  me. 


L'AUDACE 

Daughter  of  God!     Audacity  divine — 

Of  clowns  the  terror  and  of  brains  the  sign — 

Not  thou  the  inspirer  of  the  rushing  fool, 

Not  thine  of  idiots  the  vocal  drool: 

Thy  bastard  sister  of  the  brow  of  brass, 

Presumption,  actuates  the  charging  ass. 

Sky-born  Audacity!  of  thee  who  sings 

Should  strike  with  freer  hand  than  mine  the  strings; 

The  notes  should  mount  on  pinions  true  and  strong, 

For  thou,  the  subject,  shouldst  sustain  the  song, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        241 

Till  angels  lean  from  Heaven,  a  breathless  throng! 
Alas!  with  reeling  heads  and  wavering  tails, 
They  (notes,  not  angels)  drop  and  the  hymn  fails; 
The  minstrel's  tender  fingers  and  his  thumbs 
Are  torn  to  rags  upon  the  lyre  he  strums. 
Have  done!  the  lofty  thesis  makes  demand 
For  stronger  voices  and  a  harder  hand — 
Night-howling  apes  to  make  the  notes  aspire, 
And  Poet  Riley's  fist  to  slug  the  rebel  wire! 


THE    GOD'S    VIEW-POINT 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 
The  wisest  and  the  best  of  men, 
Betook  him  to  the  place  where  sat 
With  folded  feet  upon  a  mat 
Of  precious  stones  beneath  a  palm, 
In  sweet  and  everlasting  calm, 
That  ancient  and  immortal  gent, 
The  God  of  Rational  Content. 
As  tranquil  and  unmoved  as  Fate, 
The  deity  reposed  in  state, 
With  palm  to  palm  and  sole  to  sole, 
And  beaded  breast  and  beetling  jowl, 
And  belly  spread  upon  his  thighs, 
And  costly  diamonds  for  eyes. 


242    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

As  Chunder  Sen  approached  and  knelt 
To  show  the  reverence  he  felt; 
Then  beat  his  head  upon  the  sod 
To  prove  his  fealty  to  the  god; 
And  then  by  gestures  signified 
The  other  sentiments  inside ; 
The  god's  right  eye  (as  Chunder  Sen, 
The  wisest  and  the  best  of  men, 
Half-fancied)   grew  by  just  a  thought 
More  narrow  than  it  truly  ought. 
Yet  still  that  prince  of  devotees, 
Persistent  upon  bended  knees 
And  elbows  bored  into  the  earth, 
Declared  the  god's  exceeding  worth 
And  begged  his  favor.     Then  at  last, 
Within  that  cavernous  and  vast 
Thoracic  space  was  heard  a  sound 
Like  that  of  water  underground — 
A  gurgling  note  that  found  a  vent 
At  mouth  of  that  Immortal  Gent 
In  such  a  chuckle  as  no  ear 
Had  e'er  been  privileged  to  hear! 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 
The  wisest,  greatest,  best  of  men, 
Heard  with  a  natural  surprise 
That  mighty  midriff  improvise. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        243 

And  greater  yet  the  marvel  was 

When  from  between  those  massive  jaws 

Fell  words  to  make  the  views  more  plain 

The  god  was  pleased  to  entertain: 

"  Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen," 

So  ran  the  rede  in  speech  of  men — 

"  Foremost  of  mortals  in  assent 

To  creed  of  Rational  Content, 

Why  come  you  here  to  impetrate 

A  blessing  on  your  scurvy  pate? 

Can  you  not  rationally  be 

Content  without   disturbing  me? 

Can  you  not  take  a  hint — a  wink— 

Of  what  of  all  this  rot  I  think? 

Is  laughter  lost  upon  you  quite, 

To  check  you  in  your  pious  rite? 

What!  know  you  not  we  gods  protest 

That  all  religion  is  a  jest? 

You  take  me  seriously? — you 

About  me  make  a  great  ado 

(When  I  but  wish  to  be  alone) 

With  attitudes  supine  and  prone, 

With  genuflexions  and  with  prayers, 

And  putting  on  of  solemn  airs, 

To  draw  my  mind  from  the  survey 

Of  Rational  Content  away! 

Learn  once  for  all,  if  learn  you  can, 


244    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

This  truth,  significant  to  man: 

A  pious  person  is  by  odds 

The  one  most  hateful  to  the  gods." 


Then    stretching  forth  his  great  right  hand, 
Which  shadowed  all  that  sunny  land, 
The  deity  bestowed  a  touch 
Which  Chunder  Sen   not  overmuch 
Enjoyed — a  touch  divine  that  made 
The  sufferer  hear  stars!     They  played 
And  sang  as  on  Creation's  morn 
When  spheric  harmony  was  born. 

Cheeta  Raibama  Chunder  Sen, 
The  most  astonished  man  of  men, 
Fell  straight  asleep  and  when  he  woke 
The  deity  nor  moved  nor  spoke, 
But  sat  beneath  that  ancient  palm 
In  sweet  and  everlasting  calm. 


THE  ESTHETES 

The  lily  cranks,  the  lily  cranks, 

The  loppy,  loony  lasses! 
They  multiply  in  rising  ranks 
To  execute  their  solemn  pranks, 
They  moon  along  in  masses. 
Blow,  sweet  lily,  in  the  shade!  O, 
Sunflower  decorate  the  dado! 


The  maiden  ass,  the  maiden  ass, 

The  tall  and  tailless  jenny! 
In  limp  attire  as  green  as  grass, 
She  stands,  a  monumental  brass, 

The  one  of  one  too  many. 
Blow,  sweet  lily,  in  the  shade!  O, 
Sunflower  decorate  the  dado! 
1883. 


246    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


WITH  MINE  OWN  PETARD 

Time  was  the  local  poets  sang  their  songs 

Beneath  their  breath  in  terror  of  the  thongs 

I  snapped  about  their  shins.     Though  mild  the  stroke 

Bards,  like  the  conies,  are  "a  feeble  folk," 

Fearing  all  noises  but  the  one  they  make 

Themselves — at  which  all  other  mortals  quake. 

Now  from  their  cracked  and  disobedient  throats, 

Like  rats  from  sewers  scampering,  their  notes 

Pour  forth  to  move,  whene'er  the  season  serves, 

If  not  our  legs  to  dance,  at  least  our  nerves; 

As  once  a  ram's-horn  solo  maddened  all 

The  sober-minded  stones  of  Jerich's  wall. 

A  year's  exemption  from  the  critic's  curse 

Mends  the  bard's  courage  but  impairs  his  verse. 

Thus  poolside  frogs,  when  croaking  in  the  night, 

Are  frayed  to  silence  by  a  meteor's  flight, 

Or  by  the  sudden  plashing  of  a  stone 

From  some  adjacent  cottage  garden  thrown, 

But  straight  renew  the  song  with  double  din 

Whene'er  the  light  goes  out  or  man  goes  in. 

Shall  I  with  arms  unbraced  (my  casque  unlatched, 

My  falchion  pawned,  my  buckler,  too,  attached) 

Resume  the  cuishes  and  the  broad  cuirass, 

Accomplishing  my  body  all  in  brass, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        247 

And  arm  in  battle-royal  to  oppose 

A  village  poet  singing  through  the  nose? 

NQ,  let  them  rhyme ;  I  fought  them  once  before 

And  stilled  their  songs — but,  Satan!  how  they  swore! — 

Cuffed  them  upon  the  mouth  whene'er  their  throats 

They  cleared  for  action  with  their  sweetest  notes; 

Twisted  their  ears  (they'd  oft  tormented  mine) 

And  damned  them  roundly  all  along  the  line; 

Clubbed  the  whole  crew  from  the  Parnassian  slopes, 

A  wreck  of  broken  heads  and  broken  hopes! 

What  gained  I  so?     I  feathered  every  curse 

Launched  at  the  village  bards  with  lilting  verse. 

The  town  approved  and  christened  me  (to  show  its 

High  admiration)   Chief  of  Local  Poets! 


RESTORED 

Dull  were  the  days  and  sober, 

The  mountains  were  brown  and  bare, 
For  the  season  was  sad  October 

And  a  dirge  was  in  the  air. 

The  mated  starlings  flew  over 
To  the  isles  of  the  southern  sea. 

She  wept   for  her  warrior  lover — 
Wept  and  exclaimed:  "Ah  me! 


248    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Long  years  have  I  mourned  my  darling 

In  his  battle-bed  at  rest; 
And  it's  O,  to  be  a  starling, 

With  a  mate  to  share  my  nest!" 

The  angels  pitied  her  sorrow, 
Restoring  her  warrior's  life; 

And  he  came  to  her  arms  on  the  morrow 
To  claim  her  and  take  her  to  wife. 


An  aged  lover — a  portly, 

Bald  lover,  a  trifle  too  stiff, 
With  manners  that  would  have  been  courtly, 

And  would  have  been  graceful,  if — 

If  the  angels  had  only  restored  him 

Without   the   additional   years 
That  had  passed  since  the  enemy  bored  him 

To  death  with  their  long,  sharp  spears. 

As  it  was,  he  bored  her,  and  she  rambled 
Away  with  her  father's  young  groom, 

And  the  old  lover  smiled  as  he  ambled 
Contentedly  back  to  the  tomb. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        249 


SIRES  AND  SONS 

Wild  wanton  Luxury  lays  waste  the  land 
With  difficulty  tilled  by  Thrift's  hard  hand ! 
Then  dies  the  State! — and,  in  its  carcass  found, 
The  millionaires  all  maggot-like  abound. 
Alas!  was  it  for  this  that  Warren  died, 
And  Arnold  sold  himself  to  t'other  side, 
Stark  piled  at  Bennington  his  British  dead, 
And  Gates  at  Camden,  Lee  at  Monmouth,  fled?- 
For  this  that  Perry  did  the  foeman  fleece, 
And  Hull  surrender  to  preserve  the  peace? 
Degenerate  countrymen,  renounce,  I  pray, 
The  slothful  ease,  the  luxury,  the  gay 
And  gallant  trappings  of  this  idle  life, 
And  be  more  fit  for  one  another's  wife. 


A  CHALLENGE 

A  bull  imprisoned  in  a  stall 

Broke  boldly  the  confining  wall, 

And  found  himself,  when  out  of  bounds, 

Within  a  washerwoman's  grounds. 


250    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

There,  hanging  on  a  line  to  dry, 

A  crimson  skirt  inflamed  his  eye. 

With  bellowings  that  woke  the  dead, 

He  bent  his  formidable  head, 

With  pointed  horns  and  knurly  forehead; 

Then,  planting  firm  his  shoulders  horrid, 

Began,  with  rage  made  half  insane, 

To  paw  the  arid  earth  amain, 

Flinging  the  dust  upon  his  flanks 

In  desolating  clouds  and  banks, 

The  while  his  eyes'  uneasy  white 

Betrayed  his  doubt  what  foe  the  bright 

Red  tent  concealed,  perchance,  from  sight. 

The  garment,  which,  all  undismayed, 

Had  never  paled  a  single  shade, 

Now  found  a  tongue — a  dangling  sock, 

Left  carelessly  inside  the  smock: 

"  I  must  insist,  my  gracious  liege, 

That  you'll  be  pleased  to  raise  the  siege: 

My  colors  I  will  never  strike. 

I  know  your  sex — you're  all  alike. 

Some  small  experience  I've  had — 

You're  not  the  first  I've  driven  mad." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        251 


TWO   SHOWS 

The  showman  (blessing  in  a  thousand  shapes!) 

Parades  a  "  School  of  Educated  Apes !  " 

Small  education's  needed,  I  opine, 

Or  native  wit,  to  make  a  monkey  shine. 

The  brute  exhibited  has  naught  to  do 

But  ape  the  larger  apes  that  come  to  view — 

The  hoodlum  with  his  horrible  grimace, 

Long  upper  lip  and  furtive,  shuffling  pace, 

Significant  reminders  of  the  time 

When  hunters,  not  policemen,  made  him  climb; 

The  lady  loafer  with  her  draggling  "trail," 

That  free  translation  of  an  ancient  tail; 

The  sand-lot  quadrumane  in  hairy  suit, 

Whose  heels  are  thumbs  perverted  by  the  boot; 

The  painted  actress  throwing  down  the  gage 

To  elder  artists  of  the  sylvan  stage, 

Proving  that  in  the  time  of  Noah's  flood 

Two  ape-skins  held  her  whole  profession's  blood; 

The  critic  waiting,  like  a  hungry  pup, 

To  write  the  school — perhaps  to  eat  it — up, 

As  chance  or  luck  occasion  may  reveal 

To  earn  a  dollar  or  maraud  a  meal. 

To  view  the  school  of  apes  these  creatures  go, 

Unconscious  that  themselves  are  half  the  show. 


252    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

These,  if  the  simian  his  course  but  trim 
To  copy  them  as  they  have  copied  him, 
Will  call  him  "  educated."     Of  a  verity 
There's  much  to  learn  by  studying  posterity. 


A  POET'S  HOPE 

'Twas  a  weary-looking  mortal,  and  he  wandered  near 

the  portal 

Of  the  melancholy  City  of  the  Discontented  Dead. 
He  was  pale  and  worn  exceeding  and  his  manner  was 

unheeding, 

As  if  it  could  not  matter  what  he  did  nor  what  he 
said. 

"  Sacred  stranger," — I  addressed  him  with  a  reverence 

befitting 

The  austere,  unintermitting,  dread  solemnity  he  wore; 
'Tis  the  custom,  too,  prevailing  in   the  vicinage  when 

hailing 

One  who  possibly  may  be  a  person  lately  "  gone  be 
fore  "— 

"  Sacred  stranger,  much  I  ponder  on  your  evident  de 
jection, 

But   my   carefulest   reflection    leaves   the    riddle   still 
unread. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        253 

How  do  you  yourself  explain  your  dismal  tendency  to 

wander 
By  the  melancholy  City  of  the  Discontented  Dead?" 


Then  that  solemn   person,  pausing  in  the  march  that 

he  was  making, 
Roused    himself    as   if    awaking,    fixed    his    dull    and 

stony  eye 
On  my  countenance  and   slowly,  like  a  priest  devout 

and  holy, 
Chanted  in  a  mournful  monotone  the  following  reply: 


"  O  my  brother,  do  not  fear  it ;  I'm  no  disembodied 

spirit — 
I  am  Lampton,  the  Slang  Poet,  with  a  price  upon 

my  head. 
I  am  watching  by  this  portal  for  some  late  lamented 

mortal 
To  arise  in  his  disquietude  and  leave  his  earthy  bed. 


"  Then  I  hope  to  take  possession  and  pull  in  the  earth 

above  me 

And,  renouncing  my  profession,  ne'er  be  heard  of  any 
more. 


For  there's  not  a  soul  to  love  me  and  no  living  thing 

respects  me, 

Which  so  painfully  affects  me  that  I  fain  would  '  go 
before.'  " 


Then  I  felt  a  deep  compassion  for  the  gentleman's  de 
jection, 
For  privation  of  affection  would  refrigerate  a  frog. 

So    I    said :    "  If   nothing   human — if   neither   man   nor 
woman 

Can  appreciate  the  fashion  of  your  merit  buy  a  dog." 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  DEVIL 

When  Man  and  Woman  had  been  made, 

All  but  the  disposition, 
The  Devil  to  the  workshop  strayed, 

And  somehow  gained  admission. 

The  Master  rested  from  his  work, 

For  this  was  on  a  Sunday, 
The  man  was  snoring  like  a  Turk, 

Content  to  wait  till  Monday. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        255 

"  Too  bad !  "  the  Woman  cried ;  "  O,  why, 

Does  slumber  not  benumb  me? 
A  disposition!     Oh,  I  die 

To  know  if  'twill  become  me ! " 


The  Adversary  said :     "  No  doubt 
'Twill  be  extremely  fine,  ma'am, 

Though  sure  'tis  long  to  be  without- 
I  beg  to  lend  you  mine,  ma'am." 

The  Devil's  disposition  when 

She'd  got,  of  course  she  wore  it, 

For  she'd  no  disposition  then, 
Nor  now  has,  to  restore  it. 


TWO  ROGUES 

Dim,  grim,  and  silent  as  a  ghost, 

The  sentry  occupied  his  post, 

To  all  the  stirrings  of  the  night 

Alert  of  ear  and  sharp  of  sight. 

A  sudden  something — sight  or  sound, 

About,  above,  or  underground, 

He  knew  not  where  nor  what — ensued, 

Thrilling  the  sleeping  solitude. 


256    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  soldier  cried:     "Halt!     Who  goes  there?" 

The  answer  came:     "Death — in  the  air." 

"  Advance,  Death — give  the  countersign, 

Or  perish  if  you  cross  that  line ! " 

To  change  his  tone  Death  thought  it  wise — 

Reminded  him  they'd  been  allies 

Against  the  Russ,  the  Frank,  the  Turk, 

In  many  a  bloody  bit  of  work. 

"  In  short,"  said  he,  "  in  every  weather 

We've  soldiered,  you  and  I,  together." 

The  sentry  would  not  let  him  pass. 

"  Go  back,"  he  growled,  "  you  tiresome  ass — 

Go  back  and  rest  till  the  next  war, 

Nor  kill  by  methods  all  abhor: 

Miasma,  famine,  filth  and  vice, 

With  plagues  of  locusts,  plagues  of  lice, 

Foul  food,  foul  water,  and  foul  gases, 

Rank  exhalations  from  morasses. 

If  you  employ  such  low  allies 

This  business  you  will  vulgarize. 

Renouncing  then  the  field  of  fame 

To  wallow  in  a  waste  of  shame, 

I'll  prostitute  my  strength  and  lurk 

About  the  country  doing  work — 

These  hands  to  labor  I'll  devote, 

Nor  cut,  by  Hteaven,  another  throat ! " 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        257 

THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  BROOKLYN 

So,  Beecher's  dead.     He  was  a  great  soul,  too- 
Great  as  a  giant  organ  is,  whose  reeds 
Hold  in  them  all  the  souls  of  all  the  creeds 

That  man  has  ever  taught  and  never  knew. 

When  on  this  mighty  instrument  was  laid 
His  hand  Who  fashioned  it,  our  common  moan 
Was  suppliant  in  its  thundering.     The  tone 

Grew  more  vivacious  when  the  Devil  played. 

No  more  those  luring  harmonies  we  hear, 
And  lo!  already  men  forget  the  sound. 
They  turn,  retracing  all  the  dubious  ground 

O'er  which  he'd  led  them  stoutly  by  the  ear. 

NOT  GUILTY 

"  I  saw  your  charms  in  another's  arms," 
Said  a  Grecian  swain  with  his  blood  a-boil; 

"And  he  kissed  you  fair  as  he  held  you  there, 
A  willing  bird  in  a  serpent's  coil ! " 

The  maid  looked  up  from  the  cinctured  cup 
Wherein  she  was  crushing  the  berries  red, 

Pain  and  surprise  in  her  honest  eyes — 
"  It  was  only  one  o'  those  gods,"  she  said. 


258    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


PRESENTIMENT 

With  saintly  grace  and  reverent  tread, 
She  walked  among  the  graves  with  me; 
Her  every  foot-fall  seemed  to  be 

A  benediction  on  the  dead. 

The  guardian  spirit  of  the  place 

She  seemed,  and  I  some  ghost  forlorn 
Surprised  in  the  untimely  morn 

She  made  with  her  resplendent  face. 

Moved  by  some  waywardness  of  will, 
Three  paces  from  the  path  apart 
She  stepped  and  stood — my  prescient  heart 

Was  stricken  with  a  passing  chill. 

The  folk-lore  of  the  years  agone 

Remembering,  I  smiled  and  thought: 
"  Who  shudders  suddenly  at  naught, 

His  grave  is  being  trod  upon." 

But  now  I  know  that  it  was  more 
Than  idle  fancy.  O,  my  sweet, 
I  did  not  think  so  little  feet 

Could  make  a  buried  heart  so  sore! 


A  STUDY  IN  GRAY 

I  step  from  the  door  with  a  shiver 

(This  fog  is  uncommonly  cold) 
And  ask  myself:  What  did  I  give  her? — 

The  maiden  a  trifle  gone-old, 

With  the  head  of  gray  hair  that  was  gold. 

Ah,  well,  I  suppose  'twas  a  dollar, 
And  doubtless  the  change  is  correct, 

Though  it's  odd  that  it  seems  so  much  smaller 
Than  what  I'd  a  right  to  expect. 
But  you  pay  when  you  dine,  I  reflect. 

So  I  walk  up  the  street — 'twas  a  saunter 
A  score  of  years  back,  when  I  strolled 

From  this  door ;  and  our  talk  was  all  banter 
Those  days  when  her  hair  was  of  gold, 
And  the  sea-fog  less  searching  and  cold. 

A  score  ?    Why,  that  isn't  so  very 
Much  time  to  have  lost  from  a  life. 

There's  reason  enough  to  be  merry: 
I've  not  fallen  down  in  the  strife, 
But  marched  with  the  drum  and  the  fife. 


260    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

If  Hope,  when  she  lured  me  and  beckoned, 
Had  pushed  at  my  shoulders  instead, 

And  Fame,  on  whose  favors  I  reckoned, 
Had  laureled  the  worthiest  head, 
I  could  hallow  the  years  that  are  dead. 

Believe  me,  I've  held  my  own,  mostly 
Through  all  of  this  wild  masquerade; 

But  somehow  the  fog  is  more  ghostly 
To-night,  and  the  skies  are  more  grayed, 
Like  the  locks  of  the  restaurant  maid. 

If  ever  I'd  fainted  and  faltered 
I'd  fancy  this  did  but  appear; 

But  the  climate,  I'm  certain,  has  altered — 
Grown  colder  and  more  austere 
Than  it  was  in  that  earlier  year. 

The  lights,  too,  are  strangely  unsteady 
That  lead  from  the  street  to  the  quay. 

I  think  they'll  go  out — and  I'm  ready 
To  follow.  Out  there  in  the  sea 
The  fog-bell  is  calling  to  me. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        261 


FOR  MERIT 

To  Parmentier  Parisians  raise 
A  statue  fine  and  large: 

He  cooked  potatoes  fifty  ways, 
Nor  ever  led  a  charge. 

"  Palmam  qui  meruit" — the  rest 
You  know  as  well  as  I; 

And  best  of  all  to  him  that  best 
Of  sayings  will  apply. 

Let  meaner  men  the  poet's  bays 
Or  warrior's  medal  wear; 

iWho  cooks  potatoes  fifty  ways 
Shall  bear  the  palm — de  terre. 


A  BIT  OF  SCIENCE 

What!  photograph  in  colors?     'Tis  a  dream 
And  he  who  dreams  it  is  not  overwise, 

If  colors  are  vibration  they  but  seem, 
And  have  no  being.     But  if  Tyndall  lies, 
Why,  come,  then — photograph  my  lady's  eyes. 

Nay,  friend,  you  can't;  the  splendor  of  their  blue, 


262    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

As  on  my  own  beclouded  orbs  they  rest, 
To  naught  but  vibratory  motion's  due, 

As  heart,  head,  limbs  and  all  I  am  attest. 
How  could  her  eyes,  at  rest  themselves,  be  making 
In  me  so  uncontrollable  a  shaking? 

1894. 


THE  TABLES  TURNED 

Over  the  man  the  street  car  ran, 

And  the  driver  did  never  grin. 
"  O  killer  of  men,  pray  tell  me  when 

Your  laughter  means  to  begin. 

"Ten  years  to  a  day  I've  observed  you  slay, 

And  I  never  have  missed  before 
Your  jubilant  peals  as  your  crunching  wheels 

Were  spattered  with  human  gore. 

"  Why  is  it,  my  boy,  that  you  smother  your  joy, 

And  why  do  you  make  no  sign 
Of  the  merry  mind  that  is  dancing  behind 

A  solemner  face  than  mine  ?  " 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        263 

The  driver  replied :  "  I  would  laugh  till  I  cried 

If  I  had  bisected  you ; 
But  I'd  like  to  explain,  if  I  can  for  the  pain, 

'Tis  myself  that  I've  cut  in  two." 


TO  A  DEJECTED  POET 

Thy  gift,  if  that  it  be  of  God, 

Thou  hast  no  warrant  to  appraise, 

Nor  say :  "  Here  part,  O  Muse,  our  ways, 

The  road  too  stony  to  be  trod." 

Not  thine  to  call  the  labor  hard 

And  the  reward  inadequate. 

Who  haggles  o'er  his  hire  with  Fate 
Is  better  bargainer  than  bard. 

What !  count  the  effort  labor  lost 

When  thy  good  angel  holds  the  reed? 
It  were  a  sorry  thing  indeed 

To  stay  him  till  thy  palm  be  crossed. 

"The  laborer  is  worthy" — nay, 
The  sacred  ministry  of  song 
Is  rapture! — 'twere  a  grievous  wrong 

To  fix  a  wages-rate  for  play. 


264    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

THE  HUMORIST 

"What  is  that,  mother?" 

"  The  humorist,  child. 
His  hands  are  black,  but  his  heart  is  mild." 

"  May  I  touch  him,  mother?  " 

"  'Twere  needlessly  done : 
He  is  slightly  touched  already,  my  son." 

"  O,  why  does  he  wear  such  a  ghastly  grin  ?  " 
"  'Tis  the  outward  sign  of  a  joke  within." 

"Will  he  crack  it,  mother?" 

"  Not  so,  my  saint ; 
'Tis  meant  for  the  Saturday  Liver  complaint." 

"Does  he  suffer,  mother?" 

"  God  help  him,  yes! — 
A  thousand  and  fifty  kinds  of  distress." 

"  What  makes  him  sweat  so?  " 

"  The  demons  that  lurk 
In  the  fear  of  having  to  go  to  work." 
"  Why  doesn't  he  end,  then,  his  life  with  a  rope?  " 
"  Abolition  of  Hell  has  deprived  him  of  hope." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        265 


MONTEFIORE 

I  saw — 'twas  in  a  dream  the  other  night — 

A  man  whose  hair  with  age  was  thin  and  white: 

One  hundred  years  had  bettered  by  his  birth, 
And  still  his  step  was  firm,  his  eye  was  bright. 

Before  him  and  about  him  pressed  a  crowd. 
Each  head  in  reverence  was  bared  and  bowed, 

And  Jews  and  Gentiles  in  a  hundred  tongues 
Extolled  his  deeds  and  spoke  his  fame  aloud. 

I  joined  the  throng  and,  pushing  forward,  cried, 
"  Montefiore !  "  with  the  rest,  and  vied 
In  efforts  to  caress  the  hand  that  ne'er 
To  want  and  worth  had  charity  denied. 

So  closely  round  him  swarmed  our  shouting  clan 
He  scarce  could  breathe,  and  taking  from  a  pan 

A  gleaming  coin,  he  tossed  it  o'er  our  heads, 
And  in  a  moment  was  a  lonely  manl 


266    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


DISCRETION 

SHE: 
I'm  told  that  men  have  sometimes  got 

Too  confidential,  and 
Have  said  to  one  another  what 

They— well,  you  understand. 
I  hope  I  don't  offend  you,  sweet, 
But  are  you  sure  that  you're  discreet? 

HE: 
'Tis  true,  sometimes  my  friends  in  wine 

Their  conquests  do  recall, 
But  none  can  truly  say  that  mine 

Are  known  to  him  at  all. 
I  never,  never  talk  you  o'er — 
In  truth,  I  never  get  the  floor. 


AN  EXILE 

'Tis  the  census  enumerator 

A-singing  all  forlorn: 
"  It's  ho !  for  the  tall  potater, 

And  ho!  for  the  clustered  corn. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        267 

The  whiffle-tree  bends  in  the  breeze  and  the  fine 
Large  eggs  are  a-ripening  on  the  vine. 

"  Some  there  must  be  to  till  the  soil 

And  the  widow's  weeds  keep  down. 
I  wasn't  cut  out  for  rural  toil 

But  they  wont  let  me  live  in  town ! 
They're  not  so  many  by  two  or  three, 
As  they  think,  but  ah!  they're  too  many  for  me." 

Thus  the  census  man,  bowed  down  with  care, 

Warbled  his  wood-note  high. 
There  was  blood  on  his  brow  and  blood  in  his  hair, 

But  he  had  no  blood  in  his  eye. 


THE  DIVISION  SUPERINTENDENT 

Baffled  he  stands  upon  the  track — 
The  automatic  switches  clack. 

Where'er  he  turns  his  solemn  eyes 
The  interlocking  signals  rise. 

The  trains,  before  his  visage  pale, 
Glide  smoothly  by,  nor  leave  the  rail. 


268    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

No  splinter-spitted  victim  he 
Hears  uttering  the  note  high  C. 


In  sorrow  deep  he  hangs  his  head, 
A-weary — would  that  he  were  dead. 

Now  suddenly  his  spirits  rise — 
A  great  thought  kindles  in  his  eyes. 

Hope  like  a  headlight's  vivid  glare, 
Splendors  the  path  of  his  despair. 

His  genius  shines,  the  clouds  roll  back — 
"I'll  place  obstructions  on  the  track!" 


TO  A   PROFESSIONAL   EULOGIST 

Newman,  in  you  two  parasites  combine: 
As  tapeworm  and  as  graveworm  too  you  shine. 
When  on  the  virtues  of  the  quick  you've  dwelt, 
The  pride  of  residence  was  all  you  felt 
(What  vain  vulgarian  the  wish  ne'er  knew 
To  paint  his  lodging  a  flamboyant  hue?) 
And  when  the  praises  of  the  dead  you've  sung, 
'Twas  appetite,  not  truth,  inspired  your  tongue; 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        269 

As  ill-bred  men  when  warming  to  their  wine 
Boast  of  its  merit  though  it  be  but  brine. 
Not  gratitude  incites  your  song,  nor  should — 
Even  Charity  would  shun  you  if  she  could. 
You  share,  'tis  true,  the  rich  man's  daily  dole, 
But  what  you  get  you  take  by  way  of  toll. 
Vain  to  resist  you — vermifuge  alone 
Has  power  to  push  you  from  your  robber  throne. 
When  to  escape  you  he's  compelled  to  die, 
Hey!  presto! — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
You  vanish  as  a  tapeworm,  reappear 
As  graveworm  and  resume  your  curst  career. 
As  host  no  more,  to  satisfy  your  need 
He  serves  as  dinner  your  unaltered  greed. 

0  thrifty  sycophant  to  wealth  and  fame, 
Son  of  servility  and  priest  of  shame, 
While  naught  your  mad  ambition  can  abate 
To  lick  the  spittle  of  the  rich  and  great; 
While  still  like  smoke  your  eulogies  arise 
To  soot  your  heroes  and  inflame  our  eyes; 
While  still  with  holy  oil,  like  that  which  ran 
Down  Aaron's  beard,  you  smear  each  famous  man, 

1  cannot  choose  but  think  it  very  odd 
It  ne'er  occurs  to  you  to  fawn  on  God. 


270    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


ELECTION  DAY 

Despots  effete  upon  tottering  thrones 
Unsteadily  poised  upon  dead  men's  bones, 
Walk  up!  walk  up!  the  circus  is  free, 
And  this  wonderful  spectacle  you  shall  see: 
Millions  of  voters  who  mostly  are  fools, 
Demagogues'  dupes  and  candidates'  tools — 
Armies  of  uniformed  mountebanks, 
And  braying  disciples  of  brainless  cranks. 
Many  a  week  they've  bellowed  like  beeves, 
Bitterly  blackguarding,  lying  like  thieves, 
Libeling  freely  the  quick  and  the  dead 
And  painting  the  New  Jerusalem  red. 
Tyrants  monarchical — emperors,  kings, 
Princes  and  nobles  and  all  such  things — 
Noblemen,  gentlemen,  step  this  way: 
There's  nothing,  the  Devil  excepted,  to  pay, 
And  the  freaks  and  curios  here  to  be  seen 
Are  very  uncommonly  grand  and  serene. 

No  more  with  vivacity  they  debate, 
Nor  cheerfully  crack  the  dissenting  pate; 
No  longer,  the  dull  understanding  to  aid, 
The  stomach  accepts  the  instructive  blade, 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        271 

Nor  the  stubborn  heart  learns  what  is  what 
From  a  revelation  of  rabbit-shot; 
And  vilification's  flames — behold! 
Burn  with  a  bickering  faint  and  cold. 

Magnificent  spectacle! — every  tongue 
Suddenly  civil  that  yesterday  rung 
(Like  the  clapper  beating  a  brazen  bell) 
Each  fair  reputation's  eternal  knell ; 
Hands  no  longer  delivering  blows, 
And  noses,  for  counting,  arrayed  in  rows. 

Walk   up,   gentlemen — nothing  to  pay — 
The  Devil  goes  back  to  Hell  to-day. 


THE  MILITIAMAN 

"  O  warrior  with  the  burnished  arms, 
With  bullion  cord  and   tassel, 

Pray  tell  me  of  the  lurid  charms 

Of  service  and  its  fierce  alarms: 
The  storming  of  the  castle, 

The  charge  across  the  smoking  field, 
The  rifles'  busy  rattle — 

What  thoughts  inspire  the  men  who  wield 


272    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

The  blade — their  gallant  souls  how  steeled 
And  fortified  in  battle." 


"  Nay,  man  of  peace,  seek  not  to  know 

War's  baleful  fascination — 
The  soldier's  hunger  for  the  foe, 
His  dread  of  safety,  joy  to  go 

To  court  annihilation. 
Though  calling  bugles  blow  not  now, 

Nor  drums  begin  to  beat  yet, 
One  fear  unmans  me,  I'll  allow, 
And  poisons  all  my  pleasure :  How 

If  I  should  get  my  feet  wet!" 


A  WELCOME 

Because  you  call  yourselves  Knights  Templars,  and 
There's  neither  Knight  nor  Temple  in  the  land, — 

Because  you  thus  by  vain  pretense  degrade 
To  paltry  purposes  traditions  grand, — 

Because  to  cheat  the  ignorant  you  say 
The  thing  that's  not,  elated  still  to  sway 

The  crass  credulity  of  gaping  fools 
And  women  by  fantastical  display, — 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        273 

Because  no  sacred  fires  did  ever  warm 

Your  hearts,  high  knightly  service  to  perform — 

A  woman's  breast  or  coffer  of  a  man 
The  only  citadel  you  dare  to  storm, — 

Because  while  railing  still  at  lord  and  peer, 
At  pomp  and  fuss-and-feathers  while  you  jeer, 

Each  member  of  your  order  tries  to  graft 
A  peacock's  tail  upon  his  barren  rear, — 

Because  that  all  these  things  are  thus  and  so, 
I  bid  you  welcome  to  our  city.     Lo! 

You're  free  to  come,  and  free  to  stay,  and  free, 
As  soon  as  it  shall  please  you,  sirs — to  go. 


A  SERENADE 


>,  ad's  dyanio," 
He  sang  beneath  her  lattice. 
"  '  Sas  agapo  '  ?  "  she  murmure4  —  "  O, 
I  wonder,  now  what  that  is  1  " 

Was  she  less  fair  that  she  did  bear 
So  light  a  load  of  knowledge  ? 

Are  tender  looks  got  out  of  books, 
Or  kisses  taught  in  college? 


274    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Of  woman's  lore  give  me  no  more 
Than  how  to  love.     In  many 

A  tongue  men  brawl ;  she  speaks  them  all 
Who  says  "  I  love,"  in  any. 


THE  WISE  AND  GOOD 

"  O  father,  I  saw  at  the  church  as  I  passed 

The  populace  gathered  in  numbers  so  vast 

That  they  cculdn't  get  in;  and  their  voices  were  low, 

And  they  looked  as  if  suffering  terrible  woe." 

'  'Twas  the  funeral,  child,  of  a  gentleman  'dead 
For  whom  the  great  heart  of  humanity  bled." 

"  What  made  it  bleed,  father,  for  every  day 
Somebody,  somewhere,   passes  away? 
Do  the  newspaper  men  print  a  column  or  more 
Of  every  person  whose  troubles  are  o'er?  " 

"  O,  no ;  they  could  never  do  that — and  indeed, 
Though  printers  might  print  it,  no  reader  would  rea'd. 
To  the  sepulcher  all,  soon  or  late,  must  be  borne, 
But  'tis  only  the  Wise  and  Good  that  we  mourn." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        275 

"  That's  right,  father  dear,  but  how  can  our  eyes 
Distinguish  in  dead  men  the  Good  and  the  Wise?" 

"That's  easy  enough  to  the  stupidest  mind: 
They're  poor,  and  in  dying  leave  nothing  behind." 

"  Seest  thou  in  mine  eye,  father,  anything  green  ? 
And  takest  thy  son  for  a  gaping  marine? 
Go  tell  thy  fine  tale  of  the  Wise  and  the  Good 
Who  are  poor,  yet  lamented,  to  babes  in  the  wood." 

And  that  horrible  youth  as  I  hastened  away 
Was  building  a  wink  that  affronted  the  day. 


THE  LOST  COLONEL 

"  'Tis  a  woful  yarn,"  said  the  sailorman  bold 
Who  had  sailed  the  northern  lakes — 

"  No  wofuler  one  has  ever  been  told, 
Exceptin'  them  called  '  fakes.'  " 

"  Go  on,  thou  son  of  the  wind  and  fog, 
For  I  burn  to  know  the  worst!  " 

But  his  silent  lip  in  a  glass  of  grog 
Was  dreamily  immersed. 


276    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Then  he  wiped  it  upon  his  sleeve  and  said: 
"  It's  never  like  that  I  drinks 

But  what  of  a  gallant  gent  that's  dead 
I  truly  mournful  thinks. 

"  He  was  a  soldier  chap — leastways 
As  '  Colonel '  he  was  knew ; 

An'  he  hailed  from  some'rs  where  they  raise 
A  grass  that's  heavenly  blue. 

"  He  sailed  as  a  passenger  aboard 

The  schooner  '  Henery  Jo.' 
O  wild  the  waves  and  galeses  roared, 

Like  taggers  in  a  show! 

"But  he  sat  at  table  that  calm  an'  mild 

As  if  he  never  had  let 
His  sperit  know  that  the  waves  was  wild 

An'  everlastin'  wet! — 

"  Jest  set  with  a  bottle  before  his  nose, 
As  was  labeled  '  Total  Eclipse  ' 

(The  bottle  was)  an'  he  frequent  rose 
A  glass  o'  the  same  to  his  lips. 

"  An'  he  says  to  me  ( for  the  steward  slick 
Of  the  '  Henery  Jo '  was  I) : 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        277 

'This  sailor  life's  the  very  old  Nick — 
On  the  lakes  it's  powerful  dry! ' 

"  I  says :  '  Aye,  aye,  sir,  it  beats  the  Dutch. 

I  hopes  you'll  outlast  the  trip.' 
But  if  I'd  been  him — an'  I  said  as  much — 

I'd  'a'  took  a  faster  ship. 

"  His  laughture,  loud  an'  long  an'  free, 

Rang  out  o'er  the  tempest's  roar. 
'  You're  an  elegant  reasoner,'  says  he, 

'  But  it's  powerful  dry  ashore ! ' ' 

"  O  mariner  man,  why  pause  and  don 

A  look  of  so  deep  concern? 
Have  another  glass — go  on,  go  on, 

For  to  know  the  worst  I  burn." 

"  One  day  he  was  leanin'  over  the  rail, 
When  his  footing  some  way  slipped, 

An'  (this  is  the  wofulest  part  o'  my  tale) 
He  was  accidental  unshipped! 

"  The  empty  boats  was  overboard  hove, 
As  he  swum  in  the  '  Henery's '  wake ; 

But  'fore  we  had  'bouted  ship  he  had  drove 
From  sight  on  the  ragin'  lake ! " 


278    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"And  so  the  poor  gentleman  was  drowned — 
And  now  I'm  apprised  of  the  worst." 

"  What !  him  ?     'Twas  an  hour  afore  he  was  found- 
In  the  yawl — stone  dead  o'  thirst !  " 


FOR  TAT 

O  heavenly  powers!  will  wonders  never  cease ?- 

Hair  upon  dogs  and  feathers  upon  geese! 

The  boys  in  mischief  and  the  pigs  in  mire ! 

The  drinking  water  wet!  the  coal  on  fire! 

In  meadows,  rivulets  surpassing  fair, 

Forever  running,  yet  forever  there! 

A  tail  appended  to  the  gray  baboon ! 

A  person  coming  out  of  a  saloon! 

Last,  and  of  all  most  marvelous  to  see, 

A  female  Yahoo  flinging  filth  at  me ! 

If  'twould  but  stick  I'd  bear  upon  my  coat 

May  Little's  proof  that  she  is  fit  to  vote. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        279 


A  DILEMMA 

Filled  with  a  zeal  to  serve  my  fellow  men, 

For  years  I  criticised  their  prose  and  verses: 
Pointed  out  all  their  blunders  of  the  pen, 
Their  shallowness  of  thought  and  feeling;  then 
Damned  them  up  hill  and  down  with  hearty  curses! 

They  said :  "  That's  all  that  he  can  do — just  sneer, 

And  pull  to  pieces  and  be  analytic. 
Why  doesn't  he  himself,  eschewing  fear, 
Publish  a  book  or  two,  and  so  appear 

As  one  who  has  the  right  to  be  a  critic? 

"  Let  him  who  knows  it  all  forbear  to  tell 

How  little  others  know,  but  show  his  learning." 
And  then  they  added:  "Who  has  written  well 
May  censure  freely  " — quoting  Pope.     I  fell 
Into  the  trap  and  books  began  out-turning, — 

Books  by  the  score — fine  prose  and  poems  fair, 

And  not  a  book  of  them  but  was  a  terror, 
They  were  so  great  and  perfect;  though  I  swear 
I  tried  right  hard  to  work  in,  here  and  there, 
(My  nature  still  forbade)  a  fault  or  error. 


280    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"Tis  true,  some  wretches,  whom  I'd  scratched,  no  doubt, 
Professed  to  find — but  that's  a  trifling  matter. 

Now,  when  the  flood  of  noble  books  was  out 

I  raised  o'er  all  that  land  a  joyous  shout 
Till  I  was  thought  as  mad  as  any  hatter! 

(Why  hatters  all  are  mad,  I  cannot  say. 

'Twere  wrong  in  their  affliction  to  revile  'em, 
But  truly,  you'll  confess  'tis  very  sad 
We  wear  the  ugly  things  they  make.     Begad, 

They'd  be  less  mischievous  in  an  asylum!) 

Consistency,  thou  art  a — well,  you're  paste/ 
When  next  I  felt  my  demon  in  possession, 

And  made  the  field  of  authorship  a  waste, 

All  said  of  me :  "  What  execrable  taste, 
To  rail  at  others  of  his  own  profession !  " 

Good  Lord!  where  do  the  critic's  rights  begin 
Who  has  of  literature  some  clear-cut  notion, 

And  hears  a  voice  from  Heaven  say:  "  Pitch  in  "? 

He  finds  himself — alas,  poor  son  of  sin — 
Between  the  devil  and  the  deep  blue  ocean! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        281 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

Once  with  Christ  he  entered  Salem, 
Once  in  Moab  bullied  Balaam, 
Once  by  Apuleius  staged 
He  the  pious  much  enraged, 
And,  again,  his  head,  as  beaver, 
Topped  the  neck  of  Nick  the  Weaver. 
Omar  saw  him   (minus  tether — 
Free  and  wanton  as  the  weather: 
Knowing  naught  of  bit  nor  spur) 
Stamping  over  Bahram-Gur. 
Now,  as  Altgeld,  see  him  joy 
As  Governor  of  Illinois! 


THE  SAINT  AND  THE  MONK 

Saint  Peter  at  the  gate  of  Heaven  displayed 
The  tools  and  terrors  of  his  awful  trade; 
The  key,  the  frown  as  pitiless  as  night, 
That  slays  intending  trespassers  at  sight, 
And,  at  his  side  in  easy  reach,  the  curled 
Interrogation  points  all  ready  to  be  hurled. 


282    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Straight  up  the  shining  cloudway  (it  so  chanced 
No  others  were  about)  a  soul  advanced — 
A  fat,  orbicular  and  jolly  soul 
With  laughter-lines  upon  each  rosy  jowl — 
A  monk  so  prepossessing  that  the  saint 
Admired  him,  breathless  until  weak  and  faint, 
Forgot  his  frown  and  all  his  questions  too, 
Foregoing  even  the  customary  "  Who  ?  " — 
Threw  wide  the  gate  and  with  a  friendly  grin 
Said :  "  'Tis  a  very  humble  home,  but  pray  walk  in.'* 

The  soul  smiled  pleasantly.     "  Excuse  me,  please — 

Who's  in  there  ?  "     By  insensible  degrees 

This  impudence  dispelled  the  saint's  esteem, 

As  dawning  consciousness  dispels  a  dream. 

The  frown  began  to  blacken  on  his  brow, 

His  hand  to  reach  for  "Whence?"  and  "Why?" 

and  "How?" 

"  O,  no  offense,  I  hope,"  the  soul  explained ; 
"  I'm  rather — well,  particular.     I've  strained 
A  point  in  coming  here  at  all ;  'tis  said 
That  Susan  Anthony  (I  hear  she's  dead 
At  last)  and  all  her  followers  are  here. 
As  company,  they'd  be — confess  it — rather  queer." 

The  saint  replied,  his  rising  anger  past: 
"What  can  I  do? — the  law  is  hard-and-fast, 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        283 

Albeit  unwritten  and  on  earth  unknown — 
An  oral  order  issued  from  the  Throne: 
By  but  one  sin  has  Woman  e'er  incurred 
God's  wrath.     To  accuse  Them  Loud  of  that  would  be 
absurd." 


That  friar  sighed,  but,  calling  up  a  smile, 
Said,  slowly  turning  on  his  heel  the  while: 
"Farewell,  my  friend.     Put  up  the  chain  and  bar — 
I'm  going,  so  please  you,  where  the  pretty  women  are." 

1895- 


IN  HIGH  LIFE 

Sir  Impycu  Lacquit,  from  over  the  sea, 

Has  led  to  the  altar  Miss  Bloatie  Bondee. 

The  wedding  took  place  at  the  Church  of  St.  Blare ; 

The  fashion,  the  rank,  and  the  wealth  were  all  there. 

No  person  was  absent  of  all  that  one  meets: 

Lord  Mammon  himself  bowed  them  into  their  seats, 

While  good  Sir  John  Satan  attended  the  door, 

And  Sexton  Beelzebub  managed  the  floor, 

Respectfully  keeping  each  dog  on  its  rug — 

Preserving  the  peace  between  poodle  and  pug. 


284    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Twelve  bridesmaids  escorted  the  bride  up  the  aisle, 
To  blush  in  her  blush  and  to  smile  in  her  smile; 
Twelve  groomsmen  supported  the  eminent  groom, 
To  scowl  in  his  scowl  and  to  gloom  in  his  gloom. 
The  rites  were  performed  by  the  hand  and  the  lip 
Of  his  Grace  the  Diocesan,  Osculo  Grip 
Assisted  by  three  able-bodied  divines; 
He  prayed  and  they  grunted,  he  read,  they  made  signs. 
Such  fashion,  such  beauty,  such  gowning,  such  grace 
Were  ne'er  before  seen  in  that  heavenly  place! 
That  night,  full  of  gin  and  patrician  pride, 
Sir  Impycu  blackened  the  eyes  of  his  bride. 


A  WHIPPER-IN 

Commissioner  of  Pensions  Dudley  has  established  a  Sunday- 
school  and  declares  he  will  remove  any  clerk  in  his  department 
who  does  not  regularly  attend. — N.  Y.  World. 

Dudley,  great  placeman,  man  of  mark  and  note, 
Worthy  of  honor  from  a  feeble  pen 
Blunted  in  service  of  all  true,  good  men, 

You  serve  the  Lord — in  courses,  table  d'hote: 

Au  nature! ',  as  well  as  a  la  Nick — 

"  Eat  and  be  thankful,  though  it  make  you  sick." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        285 

O,  truly  pious  caterer,  forbear 

To  push  the  Saviour  and  Him  crucified 
(Brochette  you'd  call  it)  into  their  inside 

Who're  all  unused  to  such  ambrosial  fare. 

The  stomach  of  the  soul  makes  quick  revulsion 

Of  aught  that  it  has  taken  on  compulsion. 

I  search  the  Scripture,  but  I  do  not  find 
That  e'er  the  Spirit  beats  with  angry  wings 
For  entrance  to  the  heart,  but  sits  and  sings 

To  charm  away  the  scruples  of  the  mind. 

It  says :  "  Receive  me,  please ;  I'll  not  compel " — 

Though  if  you  don't  you  will  go  straight  to  Hell! 

Well,  that's  compulsion,  you  will  say.     'Tis  true: 
We  cower  timidly  beneath  the  rod 
Lifted  in  menace  by  an  angry  God, 

But  won't  endure  it  from  an  ape  like  you. 

Detested  simian  with  thumb  prehensile, 

Switch  me  and  I  would  brain  you  with  my  pencil! 

Face  you  the  Throne,  nor  dare  to  turn  your  back 
On  its  transplendency  to  flog  some  wight 
Who  gropes  and  stumbles  in  the  infernal  night 

Your  ugly  shadow  lays  along  his  track. 

O,  Thou  who  from  the  Temple  scourged  the  sin, 

Behold  what  rascals  try  to  scourge  it  in! 


286    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


JUDGMENT 

I  drew  aside  the  Future's  veil 

And  saw  upon  his  bier 
The  poet  Whitman.     Loud  the  wail 

And  damp  the  falling  tear. 

"  He's  dead — he  is  no  more !  "  one  cried, 
With  sobs  of  sorrow  crammed; 

"  No  more  ?    He's  this  much  more,"  replied 
Another :  "  he  is  damned !  " 
1885. 


A  BUBBLE 

Mrs.  Mehitable  Marcia  Moore 

Was  a  dame  of  superior  mind, 
With  a  gown  which,  modestly  fitting  before, 

Was  greatly  puffed  up  behind. 

The  bustle  she  wore  was  ingeniously  planned 

With  an  inspiration  bright: 
It  magnified  seven  diameters  and 

Was  remarkably  nice  and  light. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        287 

It  was  made  of  rubber  and  edged  with  lace 

And  riveted  all  with  brass, 
And  the  whole  immense  interior  space 

Inflated  with  hydrogen  gas. 

The  ladies  all  said  when  she  hove  in  view 

Like  the  round  and  rising  moon: 
"  She's  a  stuck  up  thing!  "  which  was  partly  true, 

And  men  called  her  the  Captive  Balloon. 

To  Manhattan  Beach  for  a  bath  one  day 

She  went  and  she  said :  "  O  dear ! 
If  I  leave  off  this  what  will  people  say? 

I  shall  look  so  uncommonly  queer!  " 

So  a  costume  she  had  accordingly  made 

To  take  it  all  nicely  in, 
And  when  she  appeared  in  that  suit  arrayed, 

She  was  greeted  with  many  a  grin. 

Proudly  and  happily  looking  around, 

She  waded  out  into  the  wet; 
But  the  water  was  very,  very  profound, 

And  her  feet  and  her  forehead  met! 

As  her  bubble  drifted  away  from  the  shore, 
On  the  glassy  billows  borne, 


288    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

All  cried:  "Why,  where  is  Mehitable  Moore? 
I  saw  her  go  in,  I'll  be  sworn ! " 

Then  the  bulb  it  swelled  as  the  sun  grew  hot, 

Till  it  burst  with  a  sullen  roar, 
And  the  sea  like  oil  closed  over  the  spot — 

Farewell,  O  Mehitable  Moore! 


FRANCINE 

Did  I  believe  the  angels  soon  would  call 
You,  my  beloved,  to  the  other  shore, 
And  I  should  never  see  you  any  more, 

I  love  you  so  I  know  that  I  should  fall 

Into  dejection  utterly,  and  all 

Love's  pretty  pageantry,  wherein  we  bore 
Twin  banners  bravely  in  the  tumult's  fore, 

Would  seem  as  shadows  idling  on  a  wall. 

So  daintily  I  love  you  that  my  love 

Endures  no  rumor  of  the  winter's  breath, 
And  only  blossoms  for  it  thinks  the  sky 

Forever  gracious,  and  the  stars  above 

Forever  friendly.     Even  the  fear  of  death 
Were  frost  wherein  its  roses  all  would  die. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        289 


AN  EXAMPLE 

They  were  two  deaf  mutes.     They  loved  and  they 

Resolved  to  be  groom  and  bride; 
And  they  listened  to  nothing  that  any  could  say, 

Nor  ever  a  word  replied. 

From  wedlock  when  warned  by  the  married  men, 

Maintain  an  invincible  mind: 
Be  deaf  and  dumb  until  wedded — and  then 

Be  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind. 


REVENGE 

A  spitcat  sate  on  a  garden  gate 

And  a  snapdog  fared  beneath ; 
Careless  and  free  was  his  mien,  and  he 

Held  a  fiddle-string  in  his  teeth. 

She  marked  his  march,  she  wrought  an  arch 
Of  her  back  and  blew  up  her  tail; 

And  her  eyes  were  green  as  ever  were  seen, 
And  she  uttered  a  woful  wail. 


290       THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  spitcat's  plaint  was  as  follows:  "  It  ain't 

That  I  am  to  music  a  foe; 
For  fiddle-strings  bide  in  my  own  inside, 

And  I  twang  them  soft  and  low. 

"  But  that  dog  has  trifled  with  art  and  rifled 

A  kitten  of  mine,  ah  me! 
That  catgut  slim  was  marauded  from  him: 

'Tis  the  string  that  men  call  E." 

Then  she  sounded  high,  in  the  key  of  Y, 
A  note  that  cracked  the  tombs; 

And  the  missiles  through  the  firmament  flew 
From  adjacent  sleeping-rooms. 

As  her  gruesome  yell  from  the  gate-post  fell 
She  followed  it  down  to  earth; 

And  that  snapdog  wears  a  placard  that  bears 
The  inscription :  "  Blind  from  birth." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        291 


THE   GENESIS   OF  EMBARRASSMENT 

When  Adam  first  saw  Eve  he  said : 
"  O  lovely  creature,  share  my  bed." 
Before  consenting,  she  her  gaze 
Fixed  on  the  greensward  to  appraise,    . 
As  well  as  vision  could  avouch, 
The  value  of  the  proffered  couch. 
And  seeing  that  the  grass  was  green 
And  soft  and  scrupulously  clean; 
Observing  that  the  flow'rs  were  rare 
Varieties,  and  some  were  fair, 
The  posts  of  precious  woods,  and  each 
Bore  luscious  fruit  in  easy  reach, 
And  all  things  suited  well  her  worth, 
She  raised  her  angel  eyes  from  earth 
To  his  and,  blushing  to  confess, 
Murmured :  "  I  love  you,  Adam — yes." 
Since  then  her  daughters,  it  is  said, 
Look  always  down  when  asked  to  wed. 


292      THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


IN  CONTUMACIAM 

Och!  Father  McGlynn, 

Ye  appear  to  be  in 
Fer  a  bit  of  a  bout  wid  the  Pope; 

An'  there's  devil  a  doubt 

But  he's  knockin'  ye  out 
While  ye're  hangin'  onto  the  rope. 

An'  soon  ye'll  lave  home 

To  thravel  to  Rome, 
For  its  bound  to  Canossa  ye  are. 

Persistin'  to  shtay 

When  ye're  ordered  away — 
Bedad!  that  is  goin'  too  far! 


FROM  THE  MINUTES 

When,    with   the    force   of    a   ram   that    discharges    its 

ponderous  body 
Straight  at  the  rear  elevation  of  the  luckless  culler  of 

simples, 
The  foot  of  Herculean  Kilgore — statesman  of  surname 

suggestive 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        298 

Or  carnage  unspeakable! — lit  like  a  missile  solid, 
prodigious 

Upon  the  Congressional  door  with  a  monstrous  and 
mighty  momentum, 

Causing  the  vain  ineffective  bar  to  political  freedom 

To  fly  from  its  hinges,  effacing  the  nasal  excrescence  of 
Dingley, 

That  luckless  one,  decently  veiling  the  ruin  with  ready 
bandanna, 

Lamented  the  loss  of  his  eminence,  sadly  with  sobs  as 
follows : 

"Ah,  why  was  I  ever  elected  to  the  halls  of  legislation, 

So  soon  to  be  shown  the  door  with  pitiless  emphasis? 
Truly, 

I've  leaned  on  a  broken  Reed,  and  the  same  has  gone 
back  on  me  meanly. 

Where  now  is  my  prominence,  erstwhile  in  council  con 
spicuous,  patent? 

Alas,  I  did  never  before  understand  what  now  I  see 
clearly, 

To  wit,  that  Democracy  tends  to  level  all  human  dis 
tinctions!" 


294       THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


A  WOMAN  IN  POLITICS 

What,  madam,  run  for  School  Director?    You? 
And  want  my  vote  and  influence?    Well,  well, 

That  beats  me!    Gad!  what  are  we  coming  to? 
In  all  my  life  I  never  have  heard  tell 
Of  such  sublime  presumption,  and  I  smell 

A  nigger  in  the  fence!     Excuse  me,  madam; 

We  statesmen  sometimes  speak  like  the  old  Adam. 

But  now  you  mention  it — well,  well,  who  knows? 

We  might,  that's  certain,  give  the  sex  a  show. 
I  have  a  cousin — teacher.     I  suppose 

If  I  stand  in  and  you're  elected — no? 

You'll  make  no  bargains?    That's  a  pretty  go! 
But  understand  that  school  administration 
Belongs  to  politics,  not  education. 

We'll  pass  the  teacher  deal ;  but  it  were  wise 
To  understand  each  other  at  the  start. 

You  know  my  business — books  and  school  supplies; 
You'd  hardly,  if  elected,  have  the  heart 
Some  small  advantage  to  deny  me — part 

Of  all  my  profits  to  be  yours.    What?  "Stealing"? 

Please  don't  express  yourself  with  so  much  feeling. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        295 

You  pain  me,  truly.     Now  one  question  more. 
Suppose  a  fair  young  man  should  ask  a  place 

As  teacher — would  you  (pardon)  shut  the  door 
Of  the  Department  in  his  handsome  face 
Until — I  know  not  how  to  put  the  case — 

Would  you  extort  a  kiss  to  pay  your  favor? 

Good  Lord!  you  laugh?    I  thought  the  matter  graver. 

Well,  well,  we  can't  do  business,  I  suspect: 
A  woman  has  no  head  for  politics. 

My  profitable  offers  you  reject 

And  will  not  promise  anything  to  fix 
Things  right  that  civic  saints  and  angels  mix. 

Good  morning.     Stay — I'm  chaffing  you,  conceitedly. 

Madam,  I  mean  to  vote  for  you — repeatedly. 


A  BALLAD  OF  PIKEVILLE 

Down   in   Southern  Arizona  where  the   Gila  monster 

thrives, 
And  the  "  Mescalero,"  gifted  with  a  hundred  thousand 

lives, 
Every  hour  renounces  one  of  them  by  drinking  liquid 

flame — 
The  assassinating  wassail  that  has  given  him  his  name; 


Where  the  enterprising  dealer  in  Caucasian  hair  is  seen 
To  hold  his  harvest  festival  upon  the  village-green, 
While  the  late  lamented   tenderfoot  upon  the  plain  is 

spread 

With  a  sanguinary  circle  on  the  summit  of  his  head; 
Where  the  cactuses  (or  cacti)  lift  their  lances  in  the  sun, 
And  incautious  jackass-rabbits  come  to  sorrow  as  they 

run, 

Lived  a  colony  of  settlers — old  Missouri  was  the  State 
Where  they  formerly  resided  at  a  prehistoric  date. 


Now,  the  spot  that  had  beeen  chosen  for  this  colonizing 
scheme 

Was  as  waterless,  believe  me,  as  an  Arizona  stream. 

The  soil  was  naught  but  ashes,  by  the  breezes  driven 
free, 

And  an  acre  and  a  quarter  were  required  to  sprout  a  pea. 

So  agriculture  languished,  for  the  land  would  not  pro 
duce, 

And  for  lack  of  water,  whisky  was  the  beverage  in  use — 

Costly  whisky,  hauled  in  wagons  many  a  weary,  weary 
day, 

Mostly  needed  by  the  drivers  to  sustain  them  on  their 
way. 

Wicked  whisky!  King  of  Evils!  Why,  O  why  did 
God  create 

Such  a  curse  and  thrust  it  on  us  in  our  inoffensive  state  ? 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        297 

Once  a  parson  came  among  them,  and  a  holy  man  was 

he; 

With  his  ailing  stomach  whisky  wouldn't  anywise  agree; 
So  he  knelt  upon  the  mesa  and  he  prayed  with  all  his 

chin 
That  the  Lord  would  send  them  water  or  incline  their 

hearts  to  gin. 
Scarcely  was  the  prayer  concluded  ere  an   earthquake 

shook  the  land, 
And  with  copious  effusion  springs  burst  out  on  every 

hand! 
Merrily  the  waters  gurgled,  and  the  shock  which  gave 

them  birth 
Fitly  was  by  some  declared  a  temperance  movement  of 

the  earth. 

Astounded  by  the  miracle,  the  people  met  that  night 
To  celebrate  it  properly  by  some  religious  rite; 
And  'tis  truthfully  recorded  that  before  the  moon  had 

sunk 

Every  man  and  every  woman  were  devotionally  drunk. 
A  half  a  standard  gallon  (says  history)  per  head 
Of  the  best  Kentucky  prime  was  at  that  ceremony  shed. 
O  the  glory  of  that  country!     O  the  happy,  happy  folk 
By  the  might  of  prayer  delivered  from  Nature's  iron 

yoke! 

Lo!  the  plains  to  the  horizon  all  are  yellowing  with  rye, 
And  the  corn  upon  the  hill-top  lifts  its  banners  to  the 

sky! 


298     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Gone  the  wagons,   gone   the  drivers,   and  the  road  is 

grown  to  grass, 

Over  which  the  incalescent  Bourbon  did  aforetime  pass. 
Pikeville   (that's  the  name  they've  given,  in  their  wild, 

romantic  way, 

To  that  irrigation  district)  now  distills,  statistics  say, 
Something  like  a  hundred  gallons,  out  of  each  recurrent 

crop, 
To  the  head  of  population — and  consumes  it,  every  drop ! 


AN  AUGURY 

Upon  my  desk  a  single  spray, 
With  starry  blossoms  fraught. 

I  write  in  many  an  idle  way, 
Thinking  one  serious  thought. 

"  O  flowers,  a  fine  Greek  name  ye  bear, 
And  with  a  fine  Greek  grace." 

(Be  still,  O  heart  that  turns  to  share 
The  sunshine  of  a   face.) 

"  Have  ye  no  messages — no  brief, 
Still  sign:  *  Despair,'  or  '  Hope  '?  " 

A  sudden  stir  of  stem  and  leaf — 
A  breath  of  heliotrope  1 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        299 

LUSUS  POLITICUS 

Come  in,  old  gentleman.     How  do  you  do? 

Delighted,  I'm  sure,  that  you've  called. 
I'm  a  sociable  sort  of  a  chap  and  you 
Are  a  pleasant-appearing  person,  too, 

With  a  head  agreeably  bald. 
That's  right — sit  down  in  the  scuttle  of  coal 

And  put  up  your  feet  in  a  chair. 

It  is  better  to  have  them  there; 
And  I've  always  said  that  a  hat  of  lead, 

Such  as  I  see  you  wear, 
Is  a  better  hat  than  a  hat  of  glass. 
And  your  boots  of  brass 

Are  a  natural  kind  of  boots,  I  swear. 
"  May  you  wipe  your  nose  on  a  paper  of  pins?  " 
Why,   certainly,  man,  why  not? 

I  rather  expected  you'd  do  so  before, 

When  I  saw  you  poking  it  in  at  the  door. 

It's  dev'lish  hot — 

The  weather,  I  mean.    "  You  are  twins?" 
Why,  that  was  evident  at  the  start, 

From  the  way  that  you  paint  your  head 

In  stripes  of  purple  and  red, 
With  dots  of  yellow. 
That  proves  you  a  fellow 
With  a  love  of  legitimate  art. 


300    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  You've  bitten  a  snake  and  are  feeling  bad  "  ? 

That's  very  sad, 

But  Longfellow's  words  I  beg  to  recall: 
Your  lot  is  the  common  lot  of  all. 
"  Horses  are  trees  and  the  moon  is  a  sneeze  "  ? 
That,  I  fancy,  is  just  as  you  please. 
Some  think  that  way,  and  others  hold 

The  contrary  view; 

I  never  quite  knew, 

For  the  matter  o'  that, 
When  everything  has  been  said. 

May  I  offer  this  mat 
If  you  will  stand  on  your  head? 
I  suppose  I  look  to  be  upside  down 

From  your  present  point  of  view. 
It's  a  giddy  old  world,  from  king  to  clown. 

And  a  topsy-turvy,  too. 
But,  worthy  and  now  uninverted  old  man, 
You're  built,  at  least,  on  a  normal  plan 

If  ever  a  truth  I  spoke. 
Smoke  ? 

Your  air  and  conversation 

Are  a  liberal  education, 
And  your  clothes,  including  the  metal  hat 
And  the  brazen  boots — what's  that? 
"  You  never  could  stomach  a  Democrat 
Since  General  Jackson  ran? 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        301 

You're  another  sort,  but  you  predict 
That  your  party'll  get  consummately  licked?" 
Good  God !  what  a  queer  old  man  1 


BEREAVEMENT 

A  Countess  (so  they  tell  the  tale) 

Who  dwelt  of  old  in  Arno's  vale, 

Where  ladies,  even  of  high  degree, 

Know  more  of  love  than  of  A,  B,  C, 

Came  once  with  a  prodigious  bribe 

Unto  the  learned  village  scribe, 

That  most  discreet  and  honest  man 

Who  wrote  for  all  the  lover  clan, 

Nor  e'er  a  secret  had  betrayed 

Save  when  inadequately  paid. 

"  Write  me,"  she  sobbed — "  I  pray  thee  do — 

A  book  about  the  Prince  di  Giu — 

A  book  of  poetry  in  praise 

Of  all  his  works  and  all  his  ways; 

The  godlike  grace  of  his  address, 

His  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 

His  courage  stern  and  lack  of  guile, 

The  loves  that  wantoned  in  his  smile. 

So  great  he  was,  so  rich  and  kind, 

I'll  not  within  a  fortnight  find 


302    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

His  equal  as  a  lover.     O, 

My  God !     I  shall  be  drowned  in  woe !  " 

"What!     Prince  di  Giu  is  dead?"  exclaimed 

The  honest  man  for  letters  famed, 

The  while  he  pocketed  her  gold; 

"  Of  what?— if  I  may  be  so  bold." 

Fresh  storms  of  tears  the  lady  shed : 

"  I  stabbed  him  fifty  times,"  she  said. 


A  PICKBRAIN 

What!  imitate  me,  friend?     Suppose  that  you 

With  agony  and  difficulty  do 

What  I  do  easily — what  then?    You've  got 

A  style  I  heartily  wish  /  had  not. 

If  I  from  lack  of  sense  and  you  from  choice 

Grieve  the  judicious  and  the  unwise  rejoice, 

No  equal  censure  our  deserts  will  suit — 

We  both  are  fools,  but  you're  an  ape  to  boot! 


THE  NAVAL  CONSTRUCTOR 

He  looked  upon  the  ships  as  they 

All  idly  lay  at  anchor, 
Their  sides  with  gorgeous  workmen  gay — 

The  riveter  and  planker — 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        303 

Republicans  and  Democrats, 

Statesmen  and  politicians. 
He  saw  the  swarm  of  prudent  rats 

Swimming  for  land  positions. 

He  marked  each  "  belted  cruiser  "  fine, 

Her  poddy  life-belts  floating 
In  tether  where  the  hungry  brine 

Impinged  upon  her  coating. 

He  noted  with  a  proud  regard, 

As  any  of  his  class  would, 
The  poplar  mast  and  poplar  yard 

Above  the  hull  of  bass-wood. 

He  saw  the  Eastlake  frigate  tall, 

With  quaintly  carven  gable, 
Hip-roof   and   dormer-window — all 

With  ivy  formidable. 

In  short,  he  saw  our  country's  hope 

In  best  of  all  conditions — 
Equipped,  to  the  last  spar  and  rope, 

By  working  politicians. 

He  boarded  then  the  noblest  ship 

And  from  the  harbor  glided. 
"  Adieu,  adieu !  "  fell  from  his  lip. 

Verdict:  "He  suicided." 

iSSi. 


304       THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


DETECTED 

In  Congress  once  great  Mowther  shone, 

Debating  weighty  matters; 
Now  into  an  asylum  thrown, 

He  vacuously  chatters. 

If  in  that  legislative  hall 

His  wisdom  still  he'd  vented, 

It  never  had  been  known  at  all 
That  Mowther  was  demented. 


BIMETALISM 

Ben  Bulger  was  a  silver  man, 

Though  not  a  mine  had  he: 
He  thought  it  were  a  noble  plan 

To  make  the  coinage  free. 

"  There  hain't  for  years  been  sech  a  time," 

Said  Ben  to  his  bull  pup, 
"  For  biz — the  country's  broke  and  I'm 

The  hardest  kind  of  up. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        305 

"  The  paper  says  that  that's  because 

The  silver  coins  is  sca'ce, 
And  that  the  chaps  which  makes  the  laws 

Puts  gold  ones  in  their  place. 

"  They  says  them  nations  always  be 

Most  prosperatin*  where 
The  wolume  of  the  currency 

Ain't  so  disgustin'  rare." 

His  dog,  which  hadn't  breakfasted, 

Dissented  from  his  view, 
And  wished  that  he  could  swell,  instead, 

The  volume  of  cold  stew. 

"  Nobody'd  put  me  up,"  said  Ben, 

"With  patriot  galoots 
Which  benefits  their  feller  men 

By  playin'  warious  roots; 

"  But  havin'  all  the  tools  about, 

I'm  goin'  to  commence 
A-turnin'  silver  dollars  out 

Wuth  eighty-seven  cents. 

"  The  feller  takin'  'em  can't  whine ; 

(No  more,  likewise,  can  I)  : 
They're  better  than  the  genooine, 

Which  mostly  satisfy. 


306    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

"  It's  only  makin'  coinage  free, 
And  mebby  might  augment 

The  wolume  of  the  currency 
A  noomerous  per  cent." 

I  don't  quite  see  his  error  nor 

Malevolence  prepense, 
But  fifteen  years  they  gave  him  for 

That  technical  offense. 


TWO  METHODS 

To  bucks  and  ewes  by  the  Good  Shepherd  fed 
The  Priest  delivers  masses  for  the  dead, 
And  even  from  estrays  outside  the  fold 
Death  for  the  masses  he  would  not  withhold. 
The  Parson,  loth  alike  to  free  or  kill, 
Forsakes  the  souls  already  on  the  grill, 
And,  God's  prerogative  of  mercy  shamming, 
Spares  living  sinners  for  a  harder  damning. 


FOUNDATIONS     OF    THE     STATE 

Observe,  dear  Lord,  what  lively  pranks 
Are  played  by  sentimental  cranks! 


First  this  one  mounts  his  hinder  hoofs 
And  brays  the  chimneys  off  the  roofs; 
Then  that  one,  with  exalted  voice, 
Expounds  the  thesis  of  his  choice, 
Our  understandings  to  bombard, 
Till  all  the  window  panes  are  starred! 
A  third  augments  the  vocal  shock 
Till  steeples  to  their  bases  rock, 
Confessing,  as  they  humbly  nod, 
They  hear  and  mark  the  will  of  God. 
A  fourth  in  oral  thunder  vents 
His  pinching  penury  of  sense 
Till  dogs  with  sympathetic  howls, 
And  lowing  cows,  and  cackling  fowls, 
Hens,  geese,  and  all  domestic  birds, 
Attest  the  terror  of  his  words. 
Cranks  thus  their  intellects  deflate 
Of  theories  about  the  State. 
This  one  avers  'tis  built  on  Truth, 
And  that  on  Temperance.    This  youth 
Declares  that  Science  bears  the  pile; 
That  graybeard,  with  a  holy  smile, 
Says  Faith  is  the  supporting  stone ; 
While  women  swear  that  Love  alone 
Could  so  unflinchingly  endure 
The  heavy  load.    And  some  are  sure 
The  solemn  state  of  Christian  Wedlock 
Is  the  indubitable  bedrock. 


308    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Physicians  once  about  the  bed 
Of  one  whose  life  was  nearly  sped 
Blew  up  a  disputatious  breeze 
About  the  cause  of  his  disease : 
This,  that  and  t'other  thing  they  blamed. 
"  Tut,  tut !  "  the  dying  man  exclaimed, 
"What  made  me  ill  I  do  not  care; 
You've  not  an  ounce  of  it,  I'll  swear. 
And  if  you  had  the  skill  to  make  it 
I'd  see  you  hanged  before  I'd  take  it! " 


AN  IMPOSTOR 

Must  you,  Carnegie,  evermore  explain 
Your  worth,  and  all  the  reasons  give  again 
Why  black  and  red  are  similarly  white 
And  you  and  God  identically  right? 
Still  must  our  ears  without  redress  submit 
To  hear  you  play  the  solemn  hypocrite 
Walking  in  spirit  some  high  moral  level, 
Raising  at  once  his  eye-balls  and  the  devil? 
Great  King  of  Cant!  if  Nature  had  but  made 
Your  mouth  without  a  tongue  I  ne'er  had  prayed 
To  have  an  earless  head.     Since  she  did  not, 
Bear  me,  ye  whirlwinds,  to  some  favored  spot — 
Some  mountain  pinnacle  that  sleeps  in  air 
So  delicately,  mercifully  rare 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        309 

That  when  the  fellow  climbs  that  giddy  hill, 
As,  for  my  sins,  I  know  at  last  he  will, 
To  utter  twaddle  in  that  void  inane 
His  soundless  organ  he  will  play  in  vain. 


FRANCE 

Unhappy  State!  with  horrors  still  to  strive: 

Thy  Hugo  dead,  thy  Boulanger  alive; 

A  Prince  who'd  govern  where  he  dares  not 

dwell, 

And  who  for  power  would  his  birthright  sell — 
Who,  eager  o'er  his  enemies  to  reign, 
Grabs  at  the  scepter  and  conceals  the  chain ; 
While  pugnant  factions  mutually  strive 
By  cutting  throats  to  keep  the  land  alive. 
Perverse  in  passion,  as  in  pride  perverse — 
To  all  a  mistress,  to  thyself  a  curse; 
Sweetheart  of  Europe!  every  sun's  embrace 
Matures  the  charm  and  poison  of  thy  grace. 
Yet  time  to  thee  nor  peace  nor  wisdom  brings: 
In  blood  of  citizens  and  blood  of  kings 
The  stones  of  thy  stability  are  set, 
And  the  fair  fabric  trembles  at  a  threat. 


310    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 


A  GUEST 

Death,  are  you  well  ?   I  trust  you  have  no  cough 

That's  painful  or  in  any  way  annoying — 
No  kidney  trouble  that  may  carry  you  off, 

Nor  heart  disease  to  keep  you  from  enjoying 
Your  meals — and  ours.     'Twere  very  sad  indeed 
To  have  to  quit  the  busy  life  you  lead. 

You've  been  quite  active  lately  for  so  old 
A  person,  and  not  very  strong-appearing. 

I'm  apprehensive,  somehow,  that  my  bold, 
Bad  brother  gave  you  trouble  in  the  spearing. 

And  my  two  friends — I  fear,  sir,  that  you  ran 

Quite  hard  for  them,  especially  the  man. 

I  crave  your  pardon :  'twas  no  fault  of  mine ; 

If  you  are  overworked  I'm  sorry,  very. 
Come  in,  old  man,  and  have  a  glass  of  wine. 

What  shall  it  be — madeira,  port  or  sherry? 
What!  just  a  mug  of  blood?     That's  funny  grog 
To  ask  a  friend  for,  eh?  Well,  take  it,  hog! 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        311 


A    FALSE    PROPHECY 

Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  far  Brazil 

(Whence  coffee  comes,  arid  the  three-cornered 

nut) 
They  say  that  you're  imperially  ill, 

And  threatened  with  paralysis.    Tut-tut! 

Though  Emperors  are  mortal,  nothing  but 
A  nimble  thunderbolt  could  catch  and  kill 
A  man  predestined  to  depart  this  life 
By  the  assassin's  bullet,  bomb  or  knife. 

Sir,  once  there  was  a  President  who  freed 

Four  million  slaves;  and  once  there  was  a  Czar 

Who  freed  ten  times  as  many  serfs.    Sins  breed 
The  means  of  punishment,  and  tyrants  are 
Hurled  headlong  out  of  the  triumphal  car 

If  faster  than  the  law  allows  they  speed. 

Lincoln  and  Alexander  struck  a  rut; 

You  freed  slaves  too.     Paralysis! — tut-tut. 
1885. 


312    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

A  SONG  OF  THE  MANY 

God's  people  sorely  were  oppressed, 
I  heard  their  lamentations  long; — 
I  hear  their  singing,  clear  and  strong, 

I  see  their  banners  in  the  West! 

The  captains  shout  the  battle-cry, 
The  legions  muster  in  their  might; 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  light, 

They  lift  their  arms,  they  testify: 

"  We  sank  beneath  the  masters'  thong, 
Our  chafing  chains  were  ne'er  undone; — 
Now  clash  your  lances  in  the  sun 

And  bless  your  banners  with  a  song ! 

"  God  bides  His  time  with  patient  eyes 
WTiile  tyrants  build  upon  the  land ; — 
He  lifts  His  face,  He  lifts  His  hand, 

And  from  the  stones  His  temples  rise. 

"Now  Freedom  waves  her  joyous  wing 
Beyond  the  foemen's  shields  of  gold. 
March  forward  singing,  for,  behold, 

The  right  shall  rule  while  God  is  King !  " 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        313 


ONE  MORNING 

Because  that  I  am  weak,  my  love,  and  ill 
I  cannot  follow  the  impatient  feet 
Of  my  desire,  but  sit  and  watch  the  beat 

Of  the  unpitying  pendulum  fulfill 

The  hour  appointed  for  the  air  to  thrill 
And  brighten  at  your  coming.     O  my  sweet, 
The  tale  of  moments  is  at  last  complete — 

The  tryst  is  broken  on  the  gusty  hill! 

O  lady,  faithful-footed,  loyal-eyed, 

The  long  leagues  silence  me;  yet  doubt  me  not: 

Think  rather  that  the  clock  and  sun  have  lied 
And  all  too  early  you  have  sought  the  spot. 

For  lo!  despair  has  darkened  all  the  light, 

And  till  I  see  your  face  it  still  is  night. 


THE  KING  OF  BORES 

Abundant  bores  afflict  this  world,  and  some 
Are  bores  of  magnitude  that  come  and — no, 
They're  always  coming,  but  they  never  go — 
Like  funeral  pageants,  as  they  drone  and  hum 
Their  lurid  nonsense  like  a  muffled  drum, 


314    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Or  bagpipe's  dread,  unnecessary  flow. 
But  one  superb  tormentor  I  can  show — 
Prince  Fiddlefaddle,  Due  de  Feefawfum. 
He  the  johndonkey  is  who,  when  I  pen 
Amorous  verses  in  an  idle  mood 

To  nobody,  or  of  her,  reads  them  through 
And,  smirking,  says  he  knows  the  lady;  then 
Calls  me  sly  dog.     I  wish  he  understood 
This  tender  sonnet's  application  too. 


HISTORY 

What  wrecked  the  Roman  power?     One  says  vice, 
Another  indolence,  another  dice. 
Emascle  says  polygamy.     "  Not  so," 
Says  Impycu — "  'twas  luxury  and  show." 
The  parson,  lifting  up  a  brow  of  brass, 
Swears  superstition  gave  the  coup  de  grace. 
Great  Allison,  the  statesman-chap  affirms 
'Twas  lack  of  coin    (croaks  Medico:  "  'Twas 

worms!  ")  — 

And  John  P.  Jones  the  swift  suggestion  collars, 
Averring  the  no  coins  were  silver  dollars. 
Thus,  through  the  ages,  each  presuming  quack 
Turns  the  poor  corpse  upon  its  rotten  back, 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE        315 

Holds  a  new  "  autopsy  "  and  finds  that  death 

Resulted  partly  from  the  want  of  breath, 

But  chiefly  from  some  visitation  sad 

That  points  his  argument  to  serve  his  fad. 

They're  all  in  error — never  human  mind 

The  cause  of  the  disaster  has  divined. 

What  slew  the  Roman  power?     Well,  provided 

You'll  keep  the  secret,  I  will  tell  you.     I  did. 


THE    HERMIT 

To  a.  hunter  from  the  city, 

Overtaken  by  the  night, 
Spake,  in  tones  of  tender  pity 

For  himself,  an  aged  wight: 

"  I  have  found  the  world  a  'fountain 
Of  deceit  and  Life  a  sham. 

I  have  taken  to  the  mountain 
And  a  Holy  Hermit  am. 

"  Sternly  bent  on  Contemplation, 
Far  apart  from  human  kind — 

In  the  hill  my  habitation, 
In  the  Infinite  my  mind. 


316    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Ten  long  years  I've  lived  a  dumb  thing, 
Growing  bald  and  bent  with  dole, 

Vainly  seeking  for  a  Something 
To  engage  my  gloomy  soul. 

"  Gentle  Pilgrim,  while  my  roots  you 
Eat,  and  quaff  my  simple  drink, 

Please  suggest  whatever  suits  you 
As  a  Theme  for  me  to  Think." 

Then  the  hunter  answered  gravely: 
"  From  distraction   free,  and  strife, 

You  could  ponder  very  bravely 
On  the  Vanity  of  Life." 

"O,  thou  wise  and  learned  Teacher, 
You  have  solved  the  Problem  well — 

You  have  saved  a  grateful  creature 
From  the  agonies  of  Hell! 

"Take  another  root,  another 
Cup  of  water:  eat  and  drink. 

Now  I  have  a  Subject,  brother, 
Tell  me  what,  and  how,  to  think." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        317 


THE  YEARLY  LIE 

A  merry  Christmas?     Prudent,  as  I  live! — 
You  wish  me  something  that  you  need  not  give. 

Merry  or  sad,  what  does  it  signify? 
To  you  'tis  equal  if  I  laugh,  or  die. 

Your  hollow  greeting,  like  a  parrot's  jest, 
Finds  all  its  meaning  in  the  ear  addressed. 

Why  "merry"  Christmas?     Faith,  I'd  rather  frown 
Than  grin  and  caper  like  a  tickled  clown. 

When  fools  are  merry  the  judicious  weep; 
The  wise  are  happy  only  when  asleep. 

A  present?     Pray  you  give  it  to  disarm 
A  man  more  powerful  to  do  you  harm. 

'Twas  not  your  motive?    Well,  I  cannot  let 
You  pay  for  favors  that  you'll  never  get. 

Perish   the  ancient  custom  of   the  gift, 
Founded  in  terror  and  maintained  in  thrift  I 

What  men  of  honor  need  to  aid  their  weal 
They  purchase,  or,  occasion  serving,  steal. 


318    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Go  celebrate  the  day  with  turkeys,  pies, 
Sermons  and  psalms  and,  for  the  children,  lies. 

Let  Santa  Claus  descend  again  the  flue; 
If  Baby  doubt  it,  swear  that  it  is  true. 

"  A  lie  well  stuck  to  is  as  good  as  truth," 
And  God's  too  old  to  legislate  for  youth. 

Hail  Christmas!     On  my  knees  and  fowl  I  fall; 

For  greater  grace  and  better  gravy  call. 

Vive  I'Humbug! — that's  to  say,  God  bless  us  all! 


AN  APOLOGUE 

A  traveler  observed  one  day 
A  loaded  fruit-tree  by  the  way, 
And  reining  in  his  horse  exclaimed: 
"  The  man  is  greatly  to  be  blamed 
Who,  careless  of  good  morals,  leaves 
Temptation  in  the  way  of  thieves. 
Now  lest  some  villain  pass  this  way 
And  by  this  fruit  be  led  astray 
To  bag  it,  I  will  kindly  pack 
It  snugly  in  my  saddle-sack." 
He  did  so;  then  that  Salt  o'  the  Earth 
Rode  on,  rejoicing  in  his  worth. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        319 

DIAGNOSIS 

Cried  Allen  Forman:     "Doctor,  pray 

Compose  my  spirit's  strife: 
O  what  may  be  my  chances,  say, 

Of  living  all  my  life? 

"  For  lately  I  have  dreamed  of  high 

And  hempen  dissolution! 
O  doctor,  doctor,  how  can  I 

Amend  my  constitution  ?  " 

The  learned  leech  replied:     "You're  young 

And  beautiful  and  strong — 
Permit  me  to  inspect  your  tongue: 

H'm,  ah,  ahem! — 'tis  long." 

FALLEN 

O,  hadst  thou  died  when  thou  wert  great, 

When  at  thy  feet  a  nation  knelt 

To  sob  the  gratitude  it  felt 
And  thank  the  Saviour  of  the  State, 
Gods  might  have  envied  thee  thy  fate! 

Then  was  the  laurel  round  thy  brow, 
And  friend  and  foe  spake  praise  of  thee, 
While  all  our  hearts  sang  victory. 
Alas !  thou  art  too  base  to  bow 
To  hide  the  shame  that  brands  it  now. 


320    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


DIES   IIUE 

A  recent  republication  of  the  late  Gen.  John  A.  Dix's  dis 
appointing  translation  of  this  famous  medieval  hymn,  together 
with  some  researches  into  its  history,  which  I  happened  to  be 
making  at  the  time,  induces  me  to  undertake  a  translation 
myself.  It  may  seem  presumption  in  me  to  attempt  that  which 
so  many  eminent  scholars  of  so  many  generations  have  at 
tempted  before  me;  but  failure  of  others  encourages  me  to 
hope  that  success,  being  still  unachieved,  is  still  achievable. 
The  fault  of  many  translations,  from  Lord  Macaulay's  to  that 
of  Gen.  Dix,  has  been,  I  venture  to  think,  a  too  strict  literal- 
ness,  whereby  the  delicate  irony  and  subtle  humor  of  the  im 
mortal  poem — though  doubtless  these  admirable  qualities  were 
valued  by  the  translators — have  been  sacrificed  in  the  result. 
In  none  of  the  English  versions  that  I  have  examined  is  more 
than  a  trace  of  the  mocking  spirit  of  insincerity  pervading 
the  whole  prayer, — the  cool  effrontery  of  the  suppliant  in 
enumerating  his  demerits,  his  serenely  illogical  demands  of 
salvation  in  spite,  or  rather  because,  of  them,  his  meek  sub 
mission  to  the  punishment  of  others,  and  the  many  similarly 
pleasing  characteristics  of  this  amusing  work  being  most  imper- 


DIES 
Dies  free!  dies  ilia! 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 

Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  Judex  est  venturus. 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        321 

fectly  conveyed.  By  permitting  myself  a  reasonable  freedom 
of  rendering — in  many  cases  boldly  supplying  that  "missing 
link"  between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  which  the  au 
thor,  writing  for  the  acute  monkish  apprehension  of  the  thir 
teenth  century,  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  insert — I  have 
hoped  at  least  partly  to  liberate  the  lurking  devil  of  humo* 
from  his  letters,  letting  him  caper,  not,  certainly,  as  he  does 
in  the  Latin,  but  as  he  probably  would  have  done  had  his  cre 
ator  written  in  English.  In  preserving  the  meter  and  trochaic 
rhymes  of  the  original,  I  have  acted  from  the  same  reverent 
regard  for  the  music  with  which,  in  the  liturgy  of  the  Church, 
the  verses  have  become  inseparably  wedded  that  inspired  Gen. 
Dix;  seeking  rather  to  surmount  the  obstacles  to  success  by 
honest  effort,  than  to  avoid  them  by  adopting  an  easier  versi 
fication  which  would  have  deprived  my  version  of  all  utility  in 
religious  service 

I  must  bespeak  the  reader's  charitable  consideration  in  re 
spect  of  the  first  stanza,  the  insuperable  difficulties  of  which 
seem  to  have  been  purposely  contrived  in  order  to  warn  off 
trespassers  at  the  very  boundary  of  the  alluring  domain.  I 
have  got  over  the  inhibition — somehow — but  David  and  the 
Sibyl  must  try  to  forgive  me  if  they  find  themselves  repre 
sented  merely  by  the  names  of  those  conspicuous  personal 
qualities  to  which  they  probably  owed  their  powers  of  proph 
ecy,  as  Samson's  strength  lay  in  his  hair. 


THE  DAY  OF  WRATH 

Day  of  Satan's  painful  duty! 
Earth  shall  vanish,  hot  and  sooty; 
So  says  Virtue,  so  says  Beauty. 

Ah!  what  terror  shall  be  shaping 
When  the  Judge  the  truth's  undraping- 
Cats  from  every  bag  escaping! 


322     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulchra  regionem, 
Coget  omnes  ante  thronum. 

Mors  stupebit,  et  Natura, 
Quum  resurget  creatura 
Judfcanti  responsura. 

Liber  scriptus  proferetur, 
In  quo  totum  continetur, 
Unde  mundus  judicetur. 

Judex  ergo  quum  sedebit, 
Quicquid  latet  apparebit, 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 

Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturus, 
Quern  patronem  rogaturus, 
Quum  vix  Justus  sit  securus? 

Rex  tremenda;  majestatis, 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis; 
Salva  me,  Fons  pietatis. 

Recordare,  Jesu  pie, 
Quod  sum  causa  tuae  viae; 
Ne  me  perdas  ilia  die. 

Quaerens  me  sedisti  lassus 
Redemisti  crucem  passus, 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        323 

Now  the  trumpet's  invocation 
Calls  the  dead  to  condemnation; 
All  receive  an  invitation. 

Death  and  Nature  now  are  quaking, 

And  the  late  lamented,  waking, 

In  their  breezy  shrouds  are  shaking. 

Lo!  the  Ledger's  leaves  are  stirring, 
And  the  Clerk,  to  them  referring, 
Makes  it  awkward  for  the  erring. 

When  the  Judge  appears  in  session, 
We  shall  all  attend  confession, 
Loudly  preaching  non-suppression 

How  shall  I  then  make  romances 

Mitigating  circumstances? 

Even  the  just  must  take  their  chances. 

King  whose  majesty  amazes, 

Save  thou  him  who  sings  thy  praises; 

Fountain,  quench  my  private  blazes. 

Pray  remember,  sacred  Saviour, 
Mine  the  playful  hand  that  gave  your 
Death-blow.     Pardon  such  behavior. 

Seeking  me,   fatigue  assailed  thee, 
Calvary's  outlook  naught  availed  thee; 
Now  'twere  cruel  if  I  failed  thee. 


324     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Juste  Judex  ultionis, 
Donum  fac  remissionis 
Ante  diem  rationis. 

Ingemisco  tanquam  reus, 
Culpa  rubet  vultus  meus; 
Supplicant!  parce,  Deus. 

Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 
Et  latronem  exaudisti, 
Mihi  quoque  spem  dedisti. 

Preces  meae  non  sunt  dignae, 
Sed  tu  bonus  fac  benigne 
Ne  perenni  cremer  igne. 

Inter  oves  locum  praesta. 
Et  ab  haedis  me  sequestra, 
Statuens  in  parte  dextra. 

Confutatis  maledictis, 
Flammis  acribus  addictis, 
Voca  me  cum  benedictis. 

Oro  supplex  et  acclinis, 
Cor  contritum  quasi  cinis; 
Gere  curam  mei  finis. 

Lacrymosa  dies  ilia 
Qua  resurget  et  favilla, 
Judicandus  homo  reus, 
Huic  ergo  parce,  Deus! 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        325 

Righteous  judge  and  learned  brother, 
Pray  thy  prejudices  smother 
Ere  we  meet  to  try  each  other. 

Sighs  of  guilt  my  conscience  gushes, 
And  my  face  vermilion  flushes; 
Spare  me  for  my  pretty  blushes. 

Thief  and  harlot,  when  repenting, 
Thou  forgavest — complimenting 
Me  with  sign  of  like  relenting. 

If  too  bold  is  my  petition 

I'll  receive  with  due  submission 

My  dismissal — from  perdition. 

When  thy  sheep  thou  hast  selected 
From  the  goats,  may  I,  respected, 
Stand  amongst  them  undetected. 

When  offenders  are  indicted, 
And  with   trial-flames  ignited, 
Elsewhere  I'll  attend  if  cited. 

Ashen-hearted,  prone  and  prayerful, 
When  of  death  I  see  the  air  full, 
Lest  I  perish  too   be  careful. 

On  that  day  of  lamentation, 
When,  to  enjoy  the  conflagration, 
Men  come  forth,  O  be  not  cruel: 
Spare  me,  Lord — make  them  thy  fuel. 


326     THE   COLLECTED    WORKS 


ONE   MOOD'S   EXPRESSION 

See,  Lord,  fanatics  all  arrayed 

For  revolution! 
To  foil  their  villainous  crusade 
Unsheathe  again  the  sacred  blade 

Of  persecution. 

What  though  through  long  disuse  'tis  grown 

A  trifle  rusty? 

'Gainst  modern  heresy,  whose  bone 
Is  rotten,  and  the  flesh  fly-blown, 

It  still  is  trusty. 

Of  sterner  stuff,  thine  ancient  foes, 

Unapprehensive, 

Sprang  forth  to  meet  thy  biting  blows; 
Our  zealots  chiefly  to  the  nose 

Assume  the  offensive. 

Then  wield  the  blade  their  necks  to  hack, 

Nor  ever  spare  one. 
Thy  crowns  of  martyrdom  unpack, 
But  see  that  every  martyr  lack 

The  head  to  wear  one. 


OP  AMBROSE   BIERCE        327 


SOMETHING  IN  THE  PAPERS 

What's  in  the  paper?"     O,  it's  dev'lish  dull: 
There's  nothing  happening  at  all — a  lull 
After  the  war-storm.     Mr.  Someone's  wife 
Killed  by  her  lover  with,  I  think,  a  knife. 
A  fire  on  Blank  Street  and  some  babies — one, 
Two,  three  or  four,  I  don't  remember,  done 
To  quite  a  delicate  and  lovely  brown. 
A  husband  shot  by  woman  of  the  town — 
The  same  old  story.     Shipwreck  somewhere  south, 
The  crew  all  saved — or  lost.     Uncommon  drouth 
Makes  hundreds  homeless  up  the  River  Mud — 
Though,  come  to  think,  I  guess  it  was  a  flood. 
'Tis  feared  some  bank  will  burst — or  else  it  won't; 
They  always  burst  I  fancy — or  they  don't; 
Who  cares  a  cent? — the  banker  pays  his  coin 
And  takes  his  chances.     Bullet  in  the  groin — 
But  that's  another  item.     Suicide — 
Fool  lost  his  money  (serve  him  right)  and  died. 
Heigh-ho!  there's  noth —    Jerusalem!  what's  this? 
Tom  Jones  has  failed!     My  God,  what  an  abyss 
Of  ruin! — owes  me  seven  hundred,  clear! 
Was  ever  such  a  damned  disastrous  year? 


328     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE  BINNACLE 

The  Church  possesses  the  unerring  compass  whose  needle 
points  directly  and  persistently  to  the  star  of  the  eternal  law 
of  God. — Religious  Weekly. 

The  Church's  compass,  if  you  please, 
Has  two  or  three  (or  more)  degrees 

Of  variation; 

And  many  a  soul  has  gone  to  grief 
On  this  or  that  or  t'other  reef 
Through  faith  unreckoning  or  brief 

Miscalculation. 
Misguidance  is  of  perils  chief 

To  navigation. 

The  obsequious  thing  makes,  too,  you'll  mark, 
Obeisance  through  a  little  arc 

Of  declination; 

For  Satan,  fearing  witches,  drew 
From  Death's  pale  horse,  one  day,  a  shoe, 
And  nailed  it  to  his  door  to  undo 

Their  machination. 
Since  then  the  needle  dips  to  woo 

His  habitation. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        329 

ONE  PRESIDENT 

"What  are  those,  father?"     "Statesmen,  my  child — 
Lachrymose,  unparliamentary,  wild." 
"What  are  they  that  way  for,  father?"     "Last  fall, 
'  Our  candidate's  better,'  they  said,  '  than  all ! '  " 

" What  did  they  say  he  was,  father ? "     "A  man 
Built  on  a  straight  and  superior  plan — 
Believing  that  none  for  an  office  would  do 
Unless  he  were  honest  and  capable  too." 

"  Poor    gentlemen — so    disappointed !  "     "  Yes,    lad, 
That  is  the  feeling  that's  driving  them  mad; 
They're  weeping  and  wailing  and  gnashing  because 
They  find  that  he's  all  that  they  said  that  he  was." 

THE  BRIDE 

"  You  know,  my  friends,  with  what  a  brave  carouse 
I  made  a  second  marriage  in  my  house — 

Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my  bed 
And  took  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine  to  spouse." 

So  sang  the  Lord  of  Poets.     In  a  gleam 
Of  light  that  made  her  like  an  angel  seem, 

The  Daughter  of  the  Vine  said :     "  I  myself 
Am  Reason,  and  the  Other  was  a  Dream." 


330     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE    MAN    BORN    BLIND 

A  man  born  blind  received  his  sight 

By  a  painful  operation; 
And  these  are  things  he  saw  in  the  light 

Of  an  infant  observation. 

He  saw  a  merchant,  good  and  wise 

And  greatly,  too,  respected, 
Who  looked,  to  those  imperfect  eyes, 

Like  a  swindler  undetected. 

He  saw  a  patriot  address 

A  noisy  public  meeting. 
He  said :  "  Why,  that's  a  calf,  I  guess, 

That  for  the  teat  is  bleating." 

A  doctor  stood  beside  a  bed 
And  shook  his  summit  sadly. 

"  O  see  that  foul  assassin !  "  said 
The  man  that  saw  so  badly. 

He  saw  a  lawyer  pleading  for 

A  thief  whom  they'd  been  jailing, 

And  said :    "  That's  an  accomplice  or 
My  sight  again  is  failing." 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        331 

Upon  the  Bench  a  Justice  sat, 

With  nothing  to  restrain  him; 
"  'Tis  strange,"  said  the  observer,  "  that 

They  ventured  to  unchain  him." 

With  theologic  works  suppplied, 

There  was  a  solemn  preacher; 
"  A  burglar  with  his  kit,"  he  cried, 

"  To  rob  a  fellow  creature." 

A  bluff  old  farmer  next  he  saw 

Sell  produce  in  a  village, 
And  said :     "  What,  what !  is  there  no  law 

To  punish  men  for  pillage?" 

A  dame,  tall,  fair  and  stately,  passed, 

Who  many  charms  united; 
He  thanked  his  stars  his  lot  was  cast 

Where  sepulchers  were  whited. 

He  saw  a  soldier  stiff  and  stern, 

"  Full  of  strange  oaths  "  and  toddy, 

But  was  unable  to  discern 
A  wound  upon  his  body. 

Ten  square  leagues  of  rolling  ground 
To  one  great  man  belonging, 


332     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Looked  like  one  little  grassy  mound 
With  worms  beneath  it  thronging. 

A  palace's  well  carven  stones, 
Where  Dives  dwelt  contented, 

Seemed  built  throughout  of  human  bones 
With  human  blood  cemented. 

He  watched  the  shining  yellow  thread 
A  silk-worm  was  a-spinning; 

"That  creature's  coining  gold,"  he  said, 
"  To  pay  some  girl  for  sinning." 

His  eyes  were  so  untrained  and  dim 

All   politics,   religions, 
Arts,  sciences,  appeared  to  him 

But  modes  of  plucking  pigeons. 

And  as  he  drew  his  final  breath, 
He  thought  he  saw  with  sorrow 

Some  persons  weeping  for  his  death 
Who'd  be  all  smiles  to-morrow. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        333 


A  NIGHTMARE 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead.    The  years  went  by: 
The  world  remembered  gratefully  that  I 

Had  lived  and  written,  although  other  names 
Once  hailed  with  homage,  had  in  turn  to  die. 

Out  of  my  grave  a  giant  beech  upgrew. 
Its  roots  transpierced  my  body,  through  and  through, 
My  substance  fed  its  growth.    From  many  lands 
Men  came  in  troops  that  noble  tree  to  view. 

'Twas  sacred  to  my  memory  and  fame — 

But  Julian  Hawthorne's  wittol  daughter  came 

And  with  untidy  finger  daubed  upon 
Its  bark  a  reeking  record  of  her  name. 


A    WET    SEASON 
Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas. 

The  rain  is  fierce,  it  flogs  the  earth, 

And  man's  in  danger. 
O  that  my  mother  at  my  birth 

Had  borne  a  stranger! 


334     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  flooded  ground  is  all  around, 

The  depth  uncommon. 
How  blest  I'd  be  if  only  she 

Had  borne  a  salmon! 


If  still  denied  the  solar  glow 

'Twere  bliss  ecstatic 
To  be  amphibious — but  O, 

To  be  aquatic! 
We're  worms,  men  say,  o'  the  dust,  and  they 

That  faith  are  firm  of. 
O,  then,  be  just:  show  me  some  dust 

To  be  a  worm  of. 

The  pines  are  chanting  overhead 

A  psalm  uncheering. 
It's  O,  to  have  been  for  ages  dead 

And  hard  of  hearing! 
Restore,  ye  Pow'rs,  the  last  bright  hours 

The  dial  reckoned; 
'Twas  in  the  time  of  Egypt's  prime — 

Rameses  II. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        335 


THE     CONFEDERATE     FLAGS 

Tut-tut!  give  back  the  flags — how  can  you  care, 

You  veterans  and  heroes? 
Why  should  you  at  a  kind  intention  swear 

Like  twenty  Neros? 

Suppose  the  act  was  not  so  overwise — 

Suppose  it  was  illegal; 
Is't  well  on  such  a  question  to  arise 

And  pinch  the  Eagle? 

Nay,  let's  economize  his  breath  to  scold 

And  terrify  the  alien 
Who  tackles  him,  as  Hercules  of  old 

The  bird  Stymphalian. 

Among  the  rebels  when  we  made  a  breach 

Was  it  to  get  their  banners  ? 
That  was  but  incidental — 'twas  to  teach 

Them  better  manners. 

They  know  the  lesson  well  enough  to-day ; 

Now,  let  us  try  to  show  them 
That  we're  not  only  stronger  far  than  they, 

(How  we  did  mow  them!) 


336     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

But  more  magnanimous.     My  lads,  'tis  plain 

'Twas  an  uncommon  riot; 
The  warlike  tribes  of   Europe  fight  for  gain; 

We  fought  for  quiet. 

If  we  were  victors,  then  we  all  must  live 

With  the  same  flag  above  us  ; 
'Twas  all  in  vain  unless  we  now  forgive 

And  make  them  love  us. 

Let  kings  keep  trophies  to  display  above 

Their  doors  like  any  savage ; 
The  freeman's  trophy  is  the  foeman's  love, 

Despite  war's  ravage. 

"  Make  treason  odious  ?  "     My  friends,  you'll  find 

You  can't,  in  right  and  reason, 
While  "Washington"  and  "treason"  are  combined — 

"  Hugo  "  and  "  treason." 

All  human  governments  must  take  the  chance 

And  hazard  of  sedition. 
O  wretch!  to  pledge  your  manhood  in  advance 

To  blind  submission. 

It  may  be  wrong,  it  may  be  right,  to  rise 

In  warlike  insurrection: 
The  loyalty  that  fools  so  dearly  prize 

May  mean  subjection. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        337 

Be  loyal  to  your  country,  yes — but  how 

If  tyrants  hold  dominion? 
The  South  believed  they  did ;  can't  you  allow 

For  that  opinion? 

He  who  will  never  rise  though  rulers  plot, 

His  liberties  despising — 
How  is  he  manlier  than  the  sans-culottes 

Who's  always  rising? 

Give  back  the  foolish  flags  whose  bearers  fell, 

Too  valiant  to  forsake  them. 
Is  it  presumptuous,  this  counsel?    Well, 

I  helped  to  take  them. 
1891. 


FABULA    DOCET 


A  rat  who'd  gorged  a  box  of  bane 
And  suffered  an  internal  pain 
Came  from  his  hole  to  die  (the  label 
Required  it  if  the  rat  were  able) 
And  found  outside  his  habitat 
A  limpid  stream.     Of  bane  and  rat 
'Twas  all  unconscious;  in  the  sun 
It  ran  and  prattled  just  for  fun. 


338     THE   COLLECTED    WORKS 

Keen  to  allay  his  inward  throes, 
The  beast  immersed  his  filthy  nose 
And  drank — then,  bloated  by  the  stream, 
And  filled  with  superheated  steam, 
Exploded  with  a  rascal  smell, 
Remarking,  as  his  fragments  fell 
Astonished  in  the  brook:     "  I'm  thinking 
This  water's  damned  unwholesome  drinking !  " 


AGAIN 

Well,  I've  met  her  again — at  the  Mission. 

She'd  told  me  to  see  her  no  more ; 
It  was  not  a  command — a  petition ; 

I'd  granted  it  once  before. 

Yes,  granted  it,  hoping  she'd  write  me, 
Repenting  her  virtuous  freak — 

Subdued  myself  daily  and  nightly 
For  the  better  part  of  a  week. 

And  then  ('twas  my  duty  to  spare  her 
The  shame  of  recalling  me)  I 

Just  sought  her  again  to  prepare  her 
For  an  everlasting  good-bye. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        339 

O  that  evening  of  bliss — shall  I  ever 

Cease  living  it  over? — although 
She  said,  when  'twas  ended:    "You're  never 

To  see  me  again.    And  now  go." 

As  we  parted  with  kisses  'twas  human 

And  natural  for  me  to  smile 
As  I  thought,  "  She's  in  love,  and  a  woman : 

She'll  send  for  me  after  a  while." 

But  she  didn't;  so — well,  the  old  Mission 

Is  fine,  picturesque  and  gray; 
'Tis  an  excellent  place  for  contrition — 

And  sometimes  she  passes  that  way. 

That's  how  it  occurred  that  I  met  her, 

And  that's  all  there  is  to  tell — 
Except  that  I'd  like  to  forget  her 

Calm  way  of  remarking :    "  I'm  well." 

It  was  hardly  worth  while,  all  this  keying 

My  soul  to  such  tensions  and  stirs 
To  learn  that  her  food  was  agreeing 

With  that  little  stomach  of  hers. 


340     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

HOMO  PODUNKENSIS 

As  the  poor  ass  that  from  his  paddock  strays 

Might  sound  abroad  his  field-companions'  praise, 

Recounting  volubly  their  well-bred  leer, 

Their  port  impressive  and  their  wealth  of  ear, 

Mistaking  for  the  world's  assent  the  clang 

Of  echoes  mocking  his  accurst  harangue; 

So  the  dull  clown,  untraveled  though  at  large, 

Visits  the  city  on  the  ocean's  marge, 

Expands  his  eyes  and  marvels  to  remark 

Each  coastwise  schooner  and  each  alien  bark; 

Prates  of  "  all  nations  ",  wonders  as  he  stares 

That  native  merchants  sell  imported  wares, 

Nor  comprehends  how  in  his  very  view 

A  foreign  vessel  has  a  foreign  crew; 

Yet,  faithful  to  the  hamlet  of  his  birth, 

Swears  it  superior  to  aught  on  earth, 

Sighs  for  the  temples  locally  renowned, 

The  village  school-house  and  the  village  pound, 

And  chalks  upon  the  palaces  of  Rome 

The  peasant  sentiments  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  I " 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        341 


A    SOCIAL    CALL 

Well,  well,  old  Father  Christmas,  is  it  you, 

With  your  thick  neck  and  thin  pretense  of  virtue? 

Less  redness  in  the  nose — nay,  even  some  blue, 
Would  not,  I  think,  particularly  hurt  you. 

When  seen  close  to,  not  mounted  in  your  car, 

You  look  the  drunkard  and  the  pig  you  are. 

No  matter,  sit  you  down,  for  I  am  not 
In  a  gray  study,  as  you  sometimes  find  me. 

Merry?    O,  no,  nor  wish  to  be,  God  wot, 
But  there's  another  year  of  pain  behind  me. 

That's  something  to  be  thankful  for:  the  more 

There  are  behind,  the  fewer  are  before. 

I  know  you,  Father  Christmas,  for  a  scamp, 
But  Heaven  endowed  me  at  my  soul's  creation 

With  an  affinity  to  every  tramp 

That  walks  the  world  and  steals  its  admiration. 

For  admiration  is,  like  linen  left 

Upon  the  line,  got  easiest  by  theft. 

Good  God !  old  man,  just  think  of  it !    I've  stood, 
With  brains  and  honesty,  some  five-and-twenty 

Long  years  as  champion  of  all  that's  good, 

And  taken  on  the  mazzard  thwacks  a-plenty. 


342     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Yet  now  whose  praises  do  the  people  bawl  ? 
Those  of  the  fellows  whom  I  live  to  maul. 


Why,  this  is  odd ! — the  more  I  try  to  talk 
Of  you,  the  more  my  tongue  grows  egotistic 

To  prattle  of  myself !    I'll  try  to  balk 
Its  waywardness  and  be  more  altruistic. 

So  let  us  speak  of  others — how  they  sin, 

And  what  a  devil  of  a  state  they're  in ! 

That's  all  I  have  to  say.     Good-bye,  old  man. 

Next  year  you  possibly  may  find  me  scolding — 
Or  miss  me  altogether:    Nature's  plan 

Includes,  as  I  suppose,  a  final  folding 
Of  these  poor  empty  hands.    Then  drop  a  tear 
To  think  they'll  never  box  another  ear. 


MY    DAY    OF    LIFE 

I  know  not  how  it  is — it  seems 

Fantastic  and  surprising 
That  after  all  these  dreams  and  dreams, 
Here  in  the  sun's  first  level  beams, 

The  sun  "is  still  just  rising! 

When  first  he  showed  his  sovereign  face, 
And  bade  the  night-folk  scuttle 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        843 

Back  to  their  holes,  I  took  my  place 
Here  on  the  hill,  and  Go'd  His  grace 
Sent  slumber  soft  and  subtle. 


Among  the  poppies  red  and  white, 
I've  lain  and  drowsed,  for  all  it 

Appears  a  sluggardly  delight. 

I  must  have  had  a  wakeful  night, 
Though,  faith,  I  don't  recall  it. 

And,  O  I've  dreamed  so  many  things! 

One  hardly  can  unravel 
The  tangled  web  of  visionings 
That  slumber-of-the-morning  brings: 

Play,  study,  work  and  travel; 

The  love  of  women  (mostly  those 

Were  fairest  that  were  newest)  ; 
Hard  knocks  from  friends  and  other  foes: 
Compacts  with  men   (my  memory  shows 
The  deadest  are  the  truest)  ; 

War — what  a  hero  I  became 

By  merely  dreaming  battle! 
Athwart  the  field  of  letters,  Fame 
Blared  through  the  brass  my  weary  name 

With  an  ominous  death-rattle. 


344    BIERCE'S  COLLECTED  WORKS 

Such  an  eternity  of  thought 

Within  a  minute's  fraction! 
Such  phantoms  out  of  nothing  wrought, 
And  fading  suddenly  to  naught 

As  I  awake  to  action! 

They  scamper  each  into  its  hole, 

These  dreams  of  my  begetting. 
They've  had  their  moment;  take,  my  soul, 
Thy  day  of  life.  .  .  .  Gods!  this  is  droll — 

That  thieving  sun  is  setting! 


SOME  ANTE-MORTEM  EPITAPHS 


A    KING    OF    CRAFT 

Here  lies  Sam  Chamberlain ;  his  fatal  smile 

Survives  its  wielder  for  a  little  while 

In  nightmares  of  the  prudent  few  who  fled 

The  Judas  kisses  that  it  heralded — 

Those  all  are  dreamless  who  stood  still  to  view 

The  smile  that  stayed  them  for  the  stab  that  slew. 

Against  his  God  his  warfare  now  is  o'er: 

His  bloodless  heart  (no  colder  than  before) 

No  longer  with  a  mute  ambition  swells 

To  run  a  half-a-hundred  little  Hells. 

With  ever  a  polite,  perfidious  art — 

A  dove  in  manner  and  a  snake  in  heart, 

This  titmouse  Machiavelli  ne'er  again 

Will  feel  the  urge,  the  passion  and  the  strain 

To  prove  it  true  that  one  may  smile  and  smile 

And  be  a  Chamberlain  the  blessed  while. 

Sharp  at  both  ends,  his  secret  soul 
Was  like  a  double-headed  mole 
Equipped  with  equal  nose  to  prod 
This  way  or  that  beneath  the  sod. 
Conjecture  fitted  to  confound 
If  seen  a  moment  out  of  ground— 

347 


348     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Its  former,  as  its  future,  route 
The  matter  of  a  vain  dispute, 
Save  where  a  dunghill's  lure  supplied 
Its  aid  the  riddle  to  decide. 
When  that  occurred  (his  nearer  nose 
Pointing  the  way  with  happier  throes) 
He  sought  it  as  a  bee  the  rose. 
And  as  that  robber  daubs  its  thighs 
With  pollen  till  it  cannot  rise, 
So  he,  with  glutted  mind,  remained 
Inert,  and  Christ  arose  and  reigned. 

We  raise  the  stone,  we  carve  the  solemn  word, 
The  sign  of  promise  and  the  symbol  grim; 
His  voice  and  vice  are  in  the  land  unheard — 

Yet  all  is  doubtful  that  relates  to  him. 
No  more  he  twirls  his  smile  to  work  us  woe ; 

We  saw  him  put  a  fathom  under  sod: 

Flung  down  at  last — but  so  was  Aaron's  rod. 
We  hope  he's  dead,  but  only  this  we  know: 

He  does  not  smile.     O  glory  be  to  God! 


STEPHEN     DORSEY 

Flee,  heedless  stranger,  from  this  spot  accurst, 

Where  rests  in  Satan  an  offender  first 

In  point  of  greatness,  as  in  point  of  time, 

Of  new-school  rascals  who  proclaim  their  crime. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        349 

Skilled  with  a  frank  loquacity  to  blab 
The  dark  arcana  of  each  mighty  grab, 
And  famed  for  lying  from  his  early  youth, 
He  sinned  secure  behind  a  veil  of  truth. 
Some  lock  their  lips  upon  their  deeds ;  some  write 
A  damning  record  and  conceal  from  sight; 
Some,  with  a  lust  of  speaking,  die  to  quell  it. 
His  way  to  keep  a  secret  was  to  tell  it. 


MR.  JUSTICE  FIELD 

Here  sleeps  one  of  the  greatest  students 

Of  jurisprudence. 

Nature  endowed  him  with  the  gift 

Of  juristhrift. 

All  points  of  law  alike  he  threw 

The  dice  to  settle. 

Those  honest  cubes  were  loaded  true 

With  railway  metal. 


GENERAL  B.  F.  BUTLER 

Thy  flesh  to  earth,  thy  soul  to  God, 
We  gave,  O  gallant  brother; 

And  o'er  thy  grave  the  awkward  squad 
Fired  into  one  another! 


350     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


REPARATION 

Beneath  this  monument  which  rears  its  head, 

A  giant  note  of  admiration — dead, 

His  life  extinguished  like  a  taper's  flame, 

John  Ericsson  is  lying  in  his  fame. 

Behold  how  massive  is  the  lofty  shaft; 

How  fine  the  product  of  the  sculptor's  craft; 

The  gold  how  lavishly  applied;  the  great 

Man's  statue  how  impressive  and  sedate! 

Think  what  the  cost  was !  It  would  ill  become 

Our  modesty  to  specify  the  sum ; 

Suffice  it  that  a  fair  per  cent,  we're  giving 

Of  what  we  robbed  him  of  when  he  was  living. 


DISINCORPORATED 

Of  Corporal  Tanner  the  head  and  the  trunk 
Are  here  in  unconsecrate  ground  duly  sunk. 
His  legs  in  the  South  claim  the  patriot's  tear, 
But,  stranger,  you  needn't  be  blubbering  here. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        351 


A    KIT 

Here  Ingalls,  sorrowing,  has  laid 

The  tools  of  his  infernal  trade — 

His  pen  and  tongue.     So  sharp  they  grew, 

And  such  destruction  from  them  flew, 

His  hand  was  wounded  when  he  wrote, 

And  when  he  spoke  he  cut  his  throat. 


DISJUNCTUS 

Within  this  humble  mausoleum 
Poor  Guiteau's  flesh  you'll  find. 

His  bones  are  kept  in  a  museum, 
And  Tillman  has  his  mind. 


A  TRENCHER-KNIGHT 

Stranger,  uncover ;  here  you  have  in  view 
The  monument  of  Chauncey  M.  Depew, 
Eater  and  orator,  the  whole  world  round 
For  feats  of  tongue  and  tooth  alike  renowned. 
Dining  his  way  to  eminence,  he  rowed 


X 


352     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

With  knife  and  fork  up  water-ways  that  flowed 
From  lakes  of  favor — pulled  with  all  his  force 
And  found  each  river  sweeter  than  the  source. 

Like  rats,  obscure  beneath  a  kitchen  floor, 
Gnawing  and  rising  till  obscure  no  more, 
He  ate  his  way  to  eminence,  and  Fame 
Inscribes  in  gravy  his  immortal  name. 

A  trencher-knight,  he,  mounte'd  on  his  belly, 
So  spurred  his  charger  that  its  sides  were  jelly. 
Grown  desperate  at  last,  it  reared  and  threw  him, 
And  Indigestion,  overtaking,  slew  him. 


A   VICE-PRESIDENT 

Here  the  remains  of  Schuyler  Coif  ax  lie ; 

Born,  all  the  world  knows  when,  and  God  knows 

why. 

In  '71  he  rilled  the  public  eye, 
In  '72  he  bade  the  world  good-bye; 
In  God's  good  time,  with  a  protesting  sigh, 
He  came  to  life  just  long  enough  to  die. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        353 

A   WASTED  LIFE 

Of  Morgan  here  lies  the  unspirited  clay, 

Who  secrets  of  Masonry  swore  to  betray. 

He  joined  the  great  Order  and  studied  with  zeal 

The  awful  arcana  he  meant  to  reveal. 

At  last  in  chagrin  by  his  own  hand  he  fell — 

There  was  nothing  to  learn,  there  was  nothing  to 

tell. 

The  Masons  are  said  to  have  killed  him.    Not  so — 
Even  a  secret  so  foul,  they're  compelled  to  forego. 


THE  SCRAP  HEAP 


POESY 

Successive  bards  pursue  Ambition's  fire 
That  shines,  Oblivion,  above  thy  mire. 
The  latest  mounts  his  predecessor's  trunk, 
And  sinks  his  brother  ere  himself  is  sunk. 
So  die  ingloriously  Fame's  elite, 
But  dams  of  dunces  keep  the  line  complete. 


HOSPITALITY 

Why  ask  me,  Gastrogogue,  to  dine, 
(Unless  to  praise  your  rascal  wine) 
Yet  never  ask  some  luckless  sinner 
Who  needs,  as  I  do  not,  a  dinner? 


MAGNANIMITY 

"  To  the  will  of  the  people  we  loyally  bow  i  " 
That's  the  minority  shibboleth  now. 
O  noble  antagonists,  answer  me  flat — 
What  would  you  do  if  you  didn't  do  that? 
857 


358     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

UNDERSTATED 

"  I'm  sorry  I  married,"  says  Upton  Sinclair: 
"  The  conjugal  status  is  awful! — 

The  devil's  device,  a  delusion  and  snare." 
Worse,  far  worse  than  that — it  is  lawful! 

AN  ATTORNEY-GENERAL 

Philander  Knox! — I  know  him  by  the  sound; 
His  sleep,  unlike  his  learning,  is  profound. 
No  dreams  of  duty  mar  his  loud  repose, 
Nor  strain  the  cobwebs  tethering  his  nose, 
Which,  roaring  ever  like  the  solemn  sea, 
Proclaims  to  all  the  world  that  this  is  he. 
In  thought  a  tortoise  but  in  act  a  hare, 
Slow  to  decide  and  impotent  to  dare, 
Yet  no  important  crisis  he  ignores, 
But  sleeps  upon  it,  and  for  action — snores. 


FINANCIAL  NEWS 

Says  Rockefeller:  "Money  is  not  tight," 
And,  faith,  I'm  thinking  that  the  man  is  right. 
If  it  were  not,  at  least  in  morals,  loose 
He  hardly  could  command  it  for  his  use. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        359 


ASPIRATION 

No   man    can   truthfully   say  that  he  would   not   like   to  be 
President.— William   C.   Whitney. 

Lo!  the  wild  rabbit,  happy  in  the  pride 
Of  qualities  to  meaner  beasts  denied, 
Surveys  the  ass  with  reverence  and  fear, 
Adoring  his  superior  length  of  ear, 
And  says:  "No  living  creature,  lean  or  fat, 
But  wishes  in  his  heart  to  be  like  That ! " 


DEMOCRACY 

Let  slaves  and  subjects  with  extolling  psalms 
Before  their  sovereign  execute  salaams; 
The  freeman  scorns  one  idol  to  adore — 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  and  himself  are  four. 


AN  ENEMY  TO  LAW  AND  ORDER 

A  is  defrauded  of  his  land  by  B, 
Who's  driven  from  the  premises  by  C. 
D  buys  the  place  with  coin  of  plundered  E. 
"  That  A's  an  Anarchist! "  says  F  to  G. 


360     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


FORESIGHT 

An  "  actors'  cemetery !  "     Sure 
The  devil  never  tires 

Of  planning  places  to  procure 
The  sticks  to  feed  his  fires. 


A   FAIR   DIVISION 

Another  Irish  landlord  gone  to  grass, 
Slain  by  the  bullets  of  the  tenant  class! 
Pray,  good  agrarians,  what  wrong  requires 
Such  foul  redress  ?    Between  you  and  the  squires 
All  Ireland's  parted  with  an  even  hand — 
For  you  have  all  the  ire,  they  all  the  land. 


A    LACKING    FACTOR 

"  You  acted  unwisely,"  I  cried,  "  as  you  see 
By  the  outcome."    He  calmly  eyed  me: 

"When  choosing  the  course  of  my  action,"  said  he, 
"  I  had  not  the  outcome  to  guide  me." 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        361 


THE    POLITICIAN 

Let  patriots  manipulate 
The  tiller  of  the  Ship  of  State; 
Be  mine  the  humble,  useful  toil 
To  work  the  tiller  of  the  soil. 


ELIHU  ROOT 

Stoop  to  a  dirty  trick  or  low  misdeed? 

What,  bend  him  from  his  moral  skies  to  it? 
No,  no,  not  he!     To  serve  his  nature's  need 
He  may  upon  occasion  rise  to  it. 


AN  ERROR 

"  I  never  have  been  able  to  determine 
Just  how  it  is  that  the  judicial  ermine 
Is  safely  guarded  from  predacious  vermin." 
"  It  is  not  so,  my  friend ;  though  in  a  garret 
'Tis  kept  in  camphor,  and  you  often  air  it, 
The  vermin  will  get  into  it  and  wear  it." 


362     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


VANISHED  AT  COCK-CROW 

"  I've  found  the  secret  of  your  charm,"  I  said, 
Expounding  with  complacency  my  guess. 

Alas !  the  charm,  even  as  I  named  it,  fled, 
For  all  its  secret  was  unconsciousness. 


WOMAN 

Study  good  women  and  ignore  the  rest, 

For  he  best  knows  the  sex  who  knows  the  best. 


A  PARTISAN'S  PROTEST 

O  statesmen,  what  would  you  be  at, 

With  torches,  flags  and  bands? 
You  make  me  first  throw  up  my  hat, 
And  then  my  hands. 


A  BEQUEST  TO  MUSIC 

"  Let  music  flourish !  "    So  he  said  and  died. 

Hark!  when  he's  gone  the  minstrelsy  begins: 
The  symphonies  ascend,  a  swelling  tide, 
Melodious  thunders  fill  the  welkin  wide — 

The  grand  old  lawyers,  chinning  on  their  chins! 


ONEIROMANCY 

I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  that  I 
Was  flung,  like  Vulcan,  from  the  sky; 
Like  him,  was  lamed — another  part: 
His  leg  was  crippled,  and  my  heart. 
I  woke  in  time  to  see  my  love 
Conceal  a  letter  in  her  glove. 


JULY  FOURTH 

God  said :    "  Let  there  be  noise."    The  dawning 

fire 
Of  Independence  gilded  every  spire. 


364     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


A  PARADOX 

"  If  life  were  not  worth  living,"  said  the  preacher, 
"  'Twould  have  in  suicide  one  pleasant  feature." 
"An  error,"  said  the  pessimist,  "you're  making: 
What's  not  worth  having  cannot  be  worth  taking.' 


REEDIFIED 

Lord  of  the  Tempest,  pray  refrain 
From  leveling  this  church  again. 
Now  in  its  doom,  since  so  you've  willed  it, 
We  acquiesce :  but  you'll  rebuild  it. 


A  BULLETIN 

"  Lothario  is  very  low," 

So  all  the  doctors  tell. 
Nay,  nay,  not  so, — he  will  be,  though, 

If  ever  he  get  well. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        365 

AN  INSCRIPTION 
For  a  Statue  of  Napoleon 

A  conqueror  as  provident  as  brave, 
He  robbed  the  cradle  to  supply  the  grave. 
His  reign  laid  quantities  of  human  dust: 
He  fell  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust. 

AN  ERRONEOUS  ASSUMPTION 

Good  for  he's  old  ?    Ah,  Youth,  you  do  not  dream 
How  sweet  the  roses  in  the  autumn  seem ! 


A  CONSTRUCTOR 

I  saw  the  devil.     He  was  working  free — 

A  customs-house  he  builded  by  the  sea. 

"  Why  do  you  this  ?  "    The  devil  raised  his  head : 

"  Of  churches  I  have  built  enough,"  he  said. 


366     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

GOD  COMPLIES 

"  By  prayer  see  Megapomp  restored," 
Shouts  Martext,  pious  creature. 

Yes,  God  by  supplication  bored 
From  every  droning  preacher, 

Exclaimed:    "So  be  it,  tiresome  crew; 

But  I've  a  crow  to  pick  with  you." 

IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS 

The  paper  presented  he  solemnly  signed, 
Gasping — perhaps  'twas  a  jest  he  meant: 

"This  of  a  sound  and  disposing  mind 
Is  the  last  illwill  and  contestament." 

THE  DISCOVERERS 

My!  how  my  fame  rings  out  in  ever  zone — 

A  thousand  critics  shouting :    "  He's  unknown !  " 

UNEXPOUNDED 

On  Evidence,  on  Deeds,  on  Bills, 
On  Copyhold,  on  Loans,  on  Wills, 
Lawyers  great  books  indite. 
The  creaking  of  their  busy  quills 
I  never  heard  on  Right. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        367 


THE    EASTERN    QUESTION 

Looking  across  the  line,  the  Grecian  said: 
"  This  border  I  will  stain  a  Turkey  red." 
The  Moslem  smiled  serenely  and  replied: 
"  No  Greek  has  ever  for  his  country  dyed." 
While  thus  each  patriot  guarded  his  frontier 
The  Powers  stole  the  country  in  his  rear. 


TWO    TYPES 

Courageous  fool! — the  peril's  strength  unknown. 
Courageous  man ! — so  conscious  of  your  own. 


TO    A    CRITIC    OF    TENNYSON 

Affronting  fool,  subdue  your  transient  light; 
When  Wisdom's  dull  dares  Folly  to  be  bright? 
If  Genius  stumble  in  the  path  to  fame 
Tis  decency  in  dunces  to  go  lame. 


368     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


COOPERATION 

No  more  the  swindler  singly  seeks  his  prey; 
To  hunt  in  couples  is  the  modern  way — 
A  rascal  from  the  public  to  purloin, 
An  honest  man  to  hide  away  the  coin. 


HUMILITY 

Great  poets  fire  the  world  with  fagots  big 
That  make  a  crackling  racket, 

But  I'm  content  with  but  a  whispering  twig 
To  warm  some  single  jacket. 


STRAINED  RELATIONS 

Says  England  to  Germany:    "Africa's  ours." 
Says  Germany :    "  Ours,  I  opine." 

Says  Africa:    "   Tell  me,  delectable  Powers, 
What  is  it  that  ought  to  be  mine?  " 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        369 


EXONERATION 

When  men  at  candidacy  don't  connive, 

From  that  suspicion  if  their  friends  would  free  'em 
The  teeth  and  nails  with  which  they  do  not  strive 

Should  be  exhibited  in  a  museum. 


AFTER  PORTSMOUTH 

Begirt  with  bombs  that  fall  and  flames  that  rise, 
The  Tsar,  bewildered,  stares.     "Alas,"  he  cries, 
"Life  withholds  joy  and  death  denies  release! 
And  Roosevelt  would  have  me  think  this  peace." 


A    VOICE    FROM    PEKIN 

"  '  Empress  of  China '!  I  nor  rule  nor  reign: 
I  wear  the  purple  but  to  hide  the  chain — 
Free  only  to  hold  back  the  open  door 
For  foreign  devils  drunk  upon  my  floor." 


370     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

A    PIOUS    RITE 

On  Maun'day  Thursday,  as  was  good  and  meet, 
The  Emperor  of  Austria  washed  the  feet 
Of  twelve  poor  men  to  show  how  humble  he 
For  twenty  minutes  of  the  year  could  be. 
O  Thou,  who  trackest  tenants  of  the  throne 
Through  moral  quagmires,  make  them  wash  their  own. 


JUSTICE 

She  jilted  me.    I  madly  cried : 

"The  grave  at  least  can  hold  her!" 
Reflecting  then  that  if  she  died 

'Twould  stop  her  growing  older, 
I  pitilessly  sheathed  the  knife 
And  sternly  sentenced  her  to  life ! 


AT    THE    BEACH 

List,  England,  to  our  words  of  scorn 
For  noblemen  to  title  born! 
Yet  be  thine  eyes  awhile  depressed, 
For  one  has  turned  his  prow  to-west, 
And  we,  to  catch  his  landing-line, 
Are  pickling  all  our  shins  in  brine. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        371 


AN   INFRACTION  OF   THE   RULES 

A  duel  in  France,  and  the  victor  pursued 
By  the  dogs  of  the  law,  by  the  multitude, 

By  society's  fierce  ill-will ! 
O  what  is  the  matter?    The  man  was  so  rude, 

That  he  made  an  attempt  to  kill! 


CONVERSELY 

There's  grief  in  Belgrade,  for  no  crown,  it  is  said, 
Is  found  for  King  Peter  in  all  of  the  town. 

How  sad  that  he's  lacking  a  crown  for  his  head! 
How  sweet  were  he  lacking  a  head  for  his  crown  J 


A    WARNING 

Cried  Age  to  Youth:    "  Abate  your  speed! 
The  distance  hither's  brief  indeed." 
But  Youth  pressed  on  without  delay — 
The  shout  had  reached  but  half  the  way. 


372     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


PSYCHOGRAPHS 

Says  Gerald  Massey:    "When  I  write,  a  band 
Of  souls  of  the  departed  guides  my  hand." 
How  strange  that  poems  cumbering  our  shelves, 
Penned  by  immortal  parts,  have  none  themselves ! 


FOR  WOUNDS 

O  bear  me,  gods,  to  some  enchanted  isle 
Where  woman's  tears  can  antidote  her  smile. 


His  "  Hoosier  poems  "  Riley  says  he  writes 
Upon  an  empty  stomach.     Heavenly  Powers, 

Feed  him  throat-full;  for  what  the  wretch  indites 
Upon  his  empty  stomach  empties  ours! 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       373 


BACK  TO  NATURE 

Nathaniel,  Julian,  Hildegardy! 
Sure  the  stock  is  far  from  hardy, 
And  the  name  once  heard  with  awe 
Now  provokes  the  loud  guffaw — 
"  H&wthorne  "  in  the  memory  dear, 
"  Haw-haw-hawthorne  "  in  the  ear! 


RUDOLPH    BLOCK 

What  parallel,  neighbor,  be  pleased  to  expound 
'Twixt  Belgium's  king  and  you  may  be  found? 
Why  this:  if  the  cable  dispatches  are  true 
He  lies  on  his  deathbed.    So  would  you. 


BOYCOTT 

"  This  thing's  a  bomb,"  said  Gompers,  lighting 
The  fuse;  "  'twill  blow  them  all  a  kiting! " 
Well,  now  'tis  shattered  all  to  pieces, 
And  Gompers  but  a  spot  of  grease  is. 


374     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


TO    HER 

O  Sinner  A,  to  me  unknown 
Be  such  a  conscience  as  your  own! 
To  ease  it,  you  to  Sinner  B 
Confess  the  sins  of  Sinner  C. 


CREATION 

God  dreamed — the  suns  sprang  flaming  into  place, 
And  sailing  worlds  with  many  a  venturous  race! 
He  woke — His  smile  alone  illumined  space. 


REBUKE 

When  Admonition's  hand  essays 

Our  greed  to  curse, 
Its  lifted  finger  oft  displays 

Our  missing  purse. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        375 


PRAYER 

Fear  not  in  any  tongue  to  call 
Upon  the  Lord — He's  skilled  in  all. 
But  if  He  answereth  my  plea 
He  speaketh  one  unknown  to  me. 


THE    LONG    FEAR 

Noting  the  hangman's  frown  and  the  law's  righteous 

rage, 
Our  murderers  live  in  terror  till  they  die  of  age. 


AN     INSPIRED     PERFORMANCE 

The  Devil  troubled  a  pool  of  mud, 
And  Vierick  from  out  the  smother 

Arose  and  to  prove  his  royal  blood 
Defamed  his  peasant  mother. 

Dear  Devil,  his  poems — we'll  suffer  all  those, 

But  do  not  again  provoke  him  to  prose. 


376    BIERCE'S  COLLECTED  WORKS 


SEPULTURE 

"  Let's  bury  the  hatchet,"  said  Miller  to  Platt; 
And  Platt  said  to  Miller:    "  I'll  gladly  do  that." 
On  its  grave,  Warner  Miller,  the  grasses  grow  not, 
But  the  wind  in  your  hair  whistles  over  the  spot. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS1097  .8529 


L  009  497  420   1 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


